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RANDneiRER 

N0RnANBY. 

MONTHLY. by the author op SILENT TO 




a Number. THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY. 

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' L-Lntered as secona-ciass matter at tne tJoston f. U. J 






i 



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GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


BY THE 
O 

AUTHOR OF “ANDY LUTTRELL.” 








BOSTON : 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS. 

/ rtto 

cyo 


.p4-l 


COPYRIGHT, 

By D. LoTHROP and CoMPAHTf 
iSSa. 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE. 

My First Sorrow, 11 

CHAPTER II. ' 

My Cousin Philip, . . . . . . 18 

CHAPTER III. 

My Mother Reasons with Me, . . . . 2t 

CHAPTER IV. 

My First Loss, 32 

CHAPTER V. 

Undisciplined, 36 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Talk with Cousin Philip, .... 41 

CHAPTER VII. 


My Maid Martha 


48 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PAGB. 

Meeting Doctor Henry, . . . i i 63 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Blacksmith^s Forge and Little Polly, . . 57 

CHAPTER X. 

Finding the, Glove, 63 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Housekeeper's Visitor, 69 

CHAPTER XII. 

An Interview with My Father, . . . , 76 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Going to See Cousin Philip, .... 85 

CHAPTER XIV. 

My First Party, 92 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Timely Invitation, 102 

CHAPTER XVI. 


A Battle with the Powers of Darkness. 


109 


CONTENTS. 


T 


CHAPTEK XYII. 

A Battle with the Powers of Darkness, . 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Hearty Greeting at Ruby Hall, 

CHAPTER XIX. 

No Time to be Homesick, . . . . 

CHAPTER XX. 

One Girl Well Trained, . . . . 

CHAPTER XXI. 

A Visit prom Aunt Genevieve, 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The ''Room Beautiful, . . . . 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Several Letters and a Walk, 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Bessy^s Decision, 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Story op the Little Girl that Sang, . 


118 

121 

136 

143 

150 

154 

158 

165 

173 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

PAGE. 

Up in Grandy Normandy's Room, . . . It9 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

** What Does the Word * Religious ' Mean . 185 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Bessy's Visit to Grandy, . . . • 193 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Sleigheide and Nurse Dimple, . . .201 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Bridget's Letter from Hollyhoxy, . . • 206 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Pearls Gleaned from a Letter, . • • • 213 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A Narrow Escape, 219 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Hallowe'en, ••..••• 225 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A New Role for Aunt Genevieve, . . . 233 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Grandy^s Reproof, .... 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Cousin Philip at Ruby Hall, 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 


FAGB. 

240 


. 248 


My Father’s Letteb^ 


256 




GEANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 



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CHAPTER L 


MY FIRST SORROW. 

I INTRODUCE to you my dog, Blossom. He is a 
thoroughbred, — a great, grand St. Bernard; and 
what constitutes his pretension to absolute beauty is 
the fact, that he is white from head to foot, — a 
downy, silky, glossy, incomparable coat, that shines 
in the sun with absolute splendor. Given with this, 
a pair of brown, contemplative eyes, — eyes of such 
softness and expressiveness as one seldom sees, even 
in a human countenance ; an expression clear and 
amiable ; a quickening of the whole physique when 
any thing pleases him, particularly if I praise him ; — 
and you must see, if you be not unusually dull of com- 
, prehension, that my Blossom is no ordinary dog. 

Now, I will to my story. 

I I was fourteen when my mother died. Before that 
I sad event, we lived like princes. I have never seen 
such an establishment as that my father maintained, 
even in beautiful Paris, which was the city of m\ 
birth. 

You see, I was not expected at all. Fifteen years 
they had waited for me, and quite given me up, when, 
lo ! I made my appearance one beautiful June day, 
and set the world rejoicing. I mean, of course, the 
little world in which my parents moved ; for in Paris 
there are circles within circles, and in society worlds 
innumerable. 


12 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


I don’t know which was the proudest, as I grew up, 
I of my mother or my mother of me. I think on both 
sides the love came very near idolatry. No mental 
method of my own can place my mother before the 
reader’s eye. Pen pictures are always all of a color ; 
and, though they produce the finest lines and the most 
exquisite shading, they fail in those sweet, almost in- 
tangible tints, that give such ecstasy to the painter’s 
eye and heart, and which even his brush sometimes 
fails to convey. 

I can then only say, that she was very, very beau- 
tiful ! — beautiful with the divine lighting-up of a 
soul as ineffable in its purity as were her face and 
form in all their delicate lines and curves. 

My father was a large, grave man, rather imposing 
in face and figure, but handsome only to those who 
knew and loved him. His portrait is before me now, 
tall, commanding, and with that love in his eyes which, 
alas ! I came in time to look for without finding : — 
a royal man in shape, with a kingly will impressed 
upon his brow ; and yet a will that never oppressed 
those with whom he was in daily contact. Towards 
my mother he was chivalry itself. If there were two 
sides to the shield of their wedded happiness, I never 
saw but one, and that was sunbright, a veritable shield 
of gold. They loved each other in the highest, holi- 
est, purest sense. He seemed, by an almost divine 
intuition, to comprehend her wishes, her mental states, 
and her wants. 

Always, both were courteous. I did not need to 
be taught politeness as a distinctive quality: it was 


MT FIRST SORROW. 


13 


in the atmosphere about me perpetually ; and I came 
to learn and understand the claims and needs of others, 
through the same gracious influence. 

It was an unusual experience to me in those days 
to see an unhappy face. My home was to me like 
the nest of a young bird, whose mother sits brooding 
over it from day to day. There is a love that does 
not properly belong to anyplace but home. Go where 
you will, distance does not annihilate it. Friendships 
may gather in the way, yet they cannot separate the 
heart’s yearnings from the tender love of home. It is 
surely a type and foretaste of heaven. The world is 
full of heavenly types and shadows of intrinsic loveli- 
ness, which will be only infinitely extended in the im- 
mortal life. 

I did not dream then, that there were even shadows. 

I I had never known a sorrow. To me, ignorance was 
indeed bliss. 

The first letting-in of the light — or was it the dark- 
ness ? — came to me when I was twelve years old. Not 
many children of half that age are as innocent and 
unworldly, now, as I was then. 

I had a little boy companion. Many girls of twelve 
have, I suppose. Not that I ever called him by any 
silly name, only that I felt that, next to my father 
and my mother, Rupert Waldemain was the dearest 
friend I had. 

He was a handsome boy, with eyes like stars and a 
smile that could be compared to nothing but the light, 
so instantaneously would it flash all over his face. His 
parents, poor and noble, lived in the apartments two 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


14 

flights above ours. They were prim, precise people, 
looking much older than they really were, and pinch- 
ing themselves of accustomed luxuries for Rupert’s 
sake. The lad was to them as a sunbeam or a 
flower, so precious that he was never trusted out of 
their sight, save when he came down to play with me. 
In his little quaint suit of blue velvet, trimmed with 
expensive old lace and fastened with gold studs, my 
little gentleman always looked his loveliest on these 
occasions. 

‘‘What makes your mother so beautiful?” he asked 
one day, when tired of playing hippodrome with only 
the chairs and cushions for tigers and elephants. We 
were resting in the huge bay-window of my nursery. 
“ I mean,” he added, “ what makes her look so young, 
with the red in her cheeks ?” 

“ Because she is young and beautiful,” I answered, 
proudly. “ Was your mamma ever beautiful ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; there are pictures hanging against the 
wall, of both of them. My mother is very young 
there, with red cheeks and black- eyes and white pow- 
der on her hair. Papa has a blue suit, with great gold 
buttons, and ruffles on his bosom and round his hands 
— such little white hands ! He has a white satin vest 
and a long queue. But then, your mamma is too beau- 
tiful. I heard my mother say so. It was after the 
drive yesterday, when she came home. My mamma 
was coming up the stairs, and papa and I sat in the 
great brown armchair, trying to get warm; for the 
fire was such a little wee bit ! And then mamma 
stood, taking off her gloves, and looking so grave that 
papa asked her what was the matter. 


MT FIRST SORROW. 


15 


“ ‘ Ah ! that sweet American lady,’ she said, with 
such a sad voice; ‘she is too beautiful! too beauti- 
ful I I see he lifts her from the carriage now.’ And 
then papa shook his head, and held me closer to him, 
and kissed me.” 

“ Papa always lifts her out of the carriage,” said I, 
i standing up ; for my breath came hard and my face 
j was all aflame. “ He loves to lift her and carry her 
I up-stairs. That’s nothing new. She never did like to 
I climb ; and, in our house in America, we have almost 
1 a dozen rooms on a floor. Papa had it built so, be- 
! cause she dislikes to go up-stairs or steep streets, or 
j hills — it doesn’t matter what. — Well, what else did 
I your mamma say ?” I asked, with a strange, jealous 
i feeling tugging at my heart. I did not like to have 
my mother commented upon by any one who did not 
know or love her. 

He shook his head, looking at the red geraniums 
that blazed outside the pane, where a small conser- 
vatory had been made, simply a casing of glass fitted 
[ to the window. 

“ You don’t like it,” he said, bluntly ; “ why should 
I tell you ?” 

“ Because I want to know, and I will know,” I 
added, the jealous, angry feeling growing slowly as 
I waited. “ Tell me all she said, and you shall have 
my singing top for your own.” 

“ And you will love me, and not grow angry ?” he 
asked. “ I don’t want your top, you know, because 
that would be a bribe ; but I’ll tell you, if you promise 
not to be angry.” 


1 6 GRAND MO THER NORM AND Y. 

Pshaw I why should I be angry or not love you ? 
You are not to blame for what your mother may say 
or think,” was my sage reply. 

‘‘ Well, then, she said it was the beauty of death, 
that she had long seen how the beautiful American 
was failing, and that it was strange how many pretty 
American women died young.” 

I felt the color slowly leaving my face, as the im- 
port of these terrible words fell heavily upon my 
heart. A feeling that I can never describe, a pain 
that was suffocating, deprived me almost of breath. 
I heard Rupert call my nurse, who was sewing at the 
other end of the room ; but his voice sounded as faint 
as a whisper. I saw her coming ; but the bright col- 
ors of her dress were dim, and her cap looked cloud- 
like and shadowy, while her brown, rugged face was 
like that of a phantom. 

‘‘ What have they been doing with my child ? she 
is as pale as a ghost and as cold as a stone I” cried the 
woman. 

Not till I felt the warm clasp of her arms, felt my 
head resting on her shoulder, did that horrible stric- 
ture leave my throat. 

‘‘ O nurse I” I cried, convulsively, “ do you believe 
it? do you believe it? Tell me it is not true !” 

“ What has that young aristocrat been telling you ? 
Of course, I don’t believe it, my pet ! What has he 
said to you, with his proud airs and handsome face ? 
Oh I I don’t like him. Believe what, my own one ? 
Don’t sigh like that ; it makes my heart ache.” 

Believe — that — ,” said I, chokingly, that — my 

mother, my blessed, beautiful mother, is going to die I” 


MT FIRST SORRO W. 


17 


I felt myself drawn closer and closer. It was she 
who sobbed now, quick, hard, dry sobs ; but, in a 
moment, she had conquered herself. 

“ What nonsense !” she exclaimed, though she bus- 
ied herself with my sash and my hair-ribbons, and did 
not once look me in the eyes. ‘‘ So that’s what the 
little French monkey said, is it ? Lucky he’s gone 
up-stairs, or I would treat with him for scaring my 
darling.” 

But, nurse,” I persisted, ‘‘ why do you look so 
strange ? You are as white as your cap-strings. Tell 
me, didn’t papa always lift her out of the carriage ?” 

Always !” 

“ Then, why should people talk of it, and think it 
strange ? Didn’t she always have red in her cheeks?” 

‘‘ Always !” said nurse, again ; but her voice fal- 
tered and her lips trembled. 

And she is quite well — ^just as well as when she 
came here ?” 

‘‘ God forgive me ! — yes : why shouldn’t she be ?” 

“ Nurse,” said I, solemnly and with all the vehe- 
mence of an outraged child’s heart, “ you are telling 
me a lie!” 

There we ^tood, face to face ; I, indignant, fright- 
ened, awed ; she, pallid, startled, conscious that, for 
very love’s sake, she was trying to deceive me. And 
still she did not speak. I sank slowly down into the 
chair behind me, strengthless, nerveless. The nurse 
rose, moved away from me ; but I called her back, 
and, clingiog to her hands, broke into uncontrollable 
sobs, and so wept, till nature was quite exhausted. 

2 


CHAPTER IL 


MY COUSIN PHILIP, 


OMETIMES there comes to me, as in a vision, 



that splendid salon that belonged to our Paris 
home. Traces of my mother’s exquisite taste lingered 
in all the hangings, — the delicate furnishing of blue 
and gold ; the absence of mirrors, and, in their stead, 
beautiful pictures of the best masters, particularly en- 
gravings, of which she was passionately fond : and 
papa was always bringing home something new. 

Our landlord was a slender little man, whose skin 
seemed dried on his bones ; and, as he walked, one 
looked for him to rattle. He wore a snuff-colored coat 
adorned with huge jet buttons ; his forehead shone like 
glass ; his eyebrows met in the middle over an owlish 
nose ; and he wore a red wig till dinner time, when he 
replaced it by a black one. I have forgotten how many 
wigs the little man deemed essential to his comfort ; 
but I know he had them of all shades and shapes, and 
gloried in the different disguises they made for him. 
Monsieur Bouve in a corn-colored suit of hair, the 
curls falling against his shoulders, could hardly be 
recognized in the curt, sardonic little man, who never 
needed to knit his brows, because nature had done 
that for him, but who, in a black, crisp wig, would 
have frightened a beggar off with a look. I believe 
the man fitted the wigs to his business, meeting his 


Mr COUSIN PHILIP. 


19 


creditors in black, bis friends in brown, and his tenants 
in the handsomest of all, the corn-colored wig, in which 
he could play the benefactor to perfection. 

“He spends a great deal of money on them,” his 
sister would say, with a melancholy shake of the head ; 
“ enough to buy a little cottage in the country, that I 
have dreamed of all my life. I had much rather keep 
hens and chickens than accounts. It does no good to 
speak to him, you know ; for he is as a child, and will 
have his way. He says he can afford it because he 
lays it not out on pipes and wine. But then, so as 
the money goes that should be put in a house, where’s 
the difference ?” and a shrug and a sigh ended the sen- 
tence. 

I was now and then allowed to go down-stairs to 
the queer little rooms where they kept their modest 
house, all by myself. Very dark and very neat it was, 
so full of odd corners and cupboards, and windows 
that looked out on a dead wall and admitted but little 
light, that a sense of mystery always penetrated me 
as I entered them. Both he and Verdiroide, his sis- 
ter (who might have passed for her brother dressed in 
neat brown calico, so closelj^ did she resemble him), 
seemed quite delighted to see me, and always made 
me welcome with a bit of fruit, a few nuts, or perhaps 
a delicious orange. With the unthinking deference of 
ignorance, they made me very well pleased with my- 
self. I now see why : my father was called the rich 
American. As if I had been a woman of twenty. 
Miss Verdiroide would gravely talk with, me on fash- 
ion, and never wearied of telling how many lords and 


20 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


ladies had rented their hotel, and what magnificent; 
parties the first and second floors had given, until I 
began to wonder why it was that my father had never 
emulated these shining lights. 

But the brightest recollection of all is that of the 
great square of garden, around which the house was 
built. There was a clock of large dimensions against 
the south side of our hotel, and over it clambered the 
cool green vines in summer, whose skeleton stems in 
winter* showing their outlines through the biiow, made 
a beautiful ornament. In this yard, adorned by a 
fountain in the centre, and lovely plats of grass and 
flowers, Rupert and I were allowed to play for an hour 
every day, accompanied by my nurse. 

There were always two black-eyed, red-lipped little 
twins looking down from one of the balconies. Rich, 
the cook, was frequently passing through a long en- 
try with shining saucepans in his hands ; and some- 
times a fat old man, who was called captain, brought 
out his dog for us to see, — a yellow dog, which he 
thought quite beautiful. Then there was the laun- 
dress with the canaries over the door, and who would 
stop her shining irons to come and talk to us, — very 
great nonsense it was, — that we were a couple of 
angels, and too beautiful to live. She herself was a 
pretty woman, Avith a high forehead and curling hair, 
and would sometimes get very cross with her two 
neighbors, old dames, who mended lace for a living, 
and whose yellow, parchment faces formed such a set- 
ting for their keen black eyes, that both Rupert and 
I called them witches, but only when we were alone 
together. 


Mr COUSIN PHILIP. 


21 


These, and the bits of children, three of them, who 
came every day with two violins and a tambourine — 
such dolls of babies, with eyes that shone like glass, 
and chubby little fingers that could hardly master the 
instruments, even to the extent of holding them, let 
alone playing ! They were sure of money from me ; 
for the great brown eyes of the tambourine girl had 
at once struck me with such a peculiar fascination 
that I often wished she could be my sister. 

At home, we seldom had company. On certain 
days, a few friends came to see mamma, and I began 
to notice now, that they went away with grave faces. 
One morning I was called from my nursery : new rib- 
bons were put in my hair and silver bangles on my 
wrists. 

“ It is a gentleman who has called,” said nurse, and 
led me to the parlor. My father was standing by a 
window, talking with some one, who, a moment after, 
turned and smiled. His noble bearing and beautiful 
soft eyes won my instant admiration. You will see 
from this, that 1 was always ready to take somebody 
to m^ heart. 

‘‘ So this is your little girl — Ada’s child,” he said, 
folding both my hands in his. As I looked up at him, 
smiling, I saw an expression of sadness in his face, 
despite its welcoming smile. ‘‘ She looks like my 
cousin,” he added, then stooped, and kissed me. 

“ Are you mamma’s Cousin Philip ?” I asked. 

‘‘ Yes,” he replied, ‘‘and you must call me cousin 
too. But how did you guess my name ?” 

“ Because mamma has told me about you, and how 
you and she used to play together when children.” 


22 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


A momentary look of pain crossed liis fine face ; but, 
for all that, he smiled. 

“ I am glad she remembered me,” was all he said. 

After that, he came often, and seemed never so 
happy as when he was in the nursery, with Rupert 
and me. For Rupert was still my prime favorite, not- 
withstanding he had told me a disagreeable truth. The 
first terror of that dreadful shock had worn away, and 
I began to believe, that not only my mother was no 
worse, but that she was better. And so, taking coun- 
sel of my hopes, I stopped watching her and ques- 
tioning my father ; and I had never as yet mentioned 
the matter to my cousin. 

‘‘ That’s a fine little fellow,” the latter said one day, 
as Rupert left the nursery. ‘‘ You will not like to 
leave him, will you ?” 

‘‘I am not going to leave him,” I said, with sturdy 
emphasis ; ‘‘ he is my dearest friend.” 

“ Of course, next to the father and the mother ; I 
understand that,” he said. But you must not love 
him too well.” 

One can’t love too well,” I answered, looking up 
into his eyes over which a shadow had fallen. I had 
always been remarkably quick at reading impressions, 
and I saw that something pained him — perhaps my 
flippant answer. 

‘‘ I think perhaps we cannot love too well, my little 
maid,” he said in his rich, low tones ; but it is not 
always wise or for our happiness. I had a little friend 
when I was of your age. I have never forgotten her. 
I love her now. She will always be dear to me.” 


Mr COUSIN PHILIP. 


23 


‘‘But,” I said, “ slie is a grown-up woman now; 
maybe she has forgotten you — maybe she didn’t care.” 

I did not mean to be impertinent. As soon as the 
words had passed my lips, I was sorry ; for his face 
clouded all over, and he got up suddenly, and went 
to the window, where he seemed to be studying the 
blood-red geraniums, so bright against the blue of the 
heavens. To this day, I never see the flower without 
recalling his fine, dark countenance, sadder just then 
them any face I had ever seen. 

Presently, he walked a little, back and forth, his 
hands folded behind him and his eyes cast down. I 
w^as observing him intently, my child’s mind groping 
about on the borders of my untrained imagination, for 
some excuse to frame for my rudeness. All at once, 
he stopped walking, and came towards me with one 
of the sweetest smiles I ever saw on mortal face. 
Child though I was, I dimly observed that he had 
fought many battles and come off conqueror in all. 

“ Do you like dogs?” he asked, now his own bright 
self again. 

“Oh ! dearly, dearly. Cousin Philip,” I answered ; 
“ so well that papa has promised to buy me one when 
we go on the continent — a Skye, or one of those royal 
little dogs, you know ; but I don’t like little dogs, I 
want a Newfoundland.” 

“ That you shall have, then,” he made reply. “You 
must know there’s a pretty, bewitching little New- 
foundland baby waiting for you at home.” 

“ Where is it ? has mother got it ? oh ! please let 
me see it — please do, please do, Uncle Philip,” I cried, 
half wild with excitement. 


24 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


‘‘ At home, I said,” he repeated, quietly. 

“ Well, is this not home ?” 

“ It is your Paris home. I mean the home in Amer 
ica.” 

‘‘ Oh ! if it is away off there, it might as well be 
nowhere,” I said. You mean at Hollyhoxy and 
my heart sank. 

‘‘ Then you don’t like Hollyhoxy as well as you do 
liere — the grand old home with its woods and moun- 
tains?” he said. 

I shook my head. Paris was my birthplace — I loved 
it dearly. 

I don’t like it as well as here, and I hope we 
shall not go there,” I said. ‘‘ Papa told me he would 
take me to Venice this winter. He has promised me 
Venice so long !” 

‘‘ But your mother is anxious to go back.” 

“ What ! to Hollyhoxy ! so soon !” 

“ Yes; I think she is planning that way.” 

“ Then,” I said, slowly, my heart sinking down, 
“ she is worse.” 

He grew pale to the lips, but did not answer. 

“ Tell me. Cousin Philip, nobody else will, is my 
mother going to die ?” I asked the question soberly 
and with a great gasp. My wild eyes frightened him, 
perhaps ; for he drew me closer to his bosom, as one 
would hush a baby, from which place I quickly with- 
drew my head ; for I could not bear to hear the loud 
beating of his heart. 

‘‘ My child, we are all going to die sometime, you 
know,” he said, holding my right hand in one of his, 


Mr COUSIN PHILIP. 


25 


and passing the palm o£ the other over it again and 
again ; “ and, though I think your mother is not 
quite as well as she was when I left her at Hollyhoxy, 
yet, who knows, she may outlive the strongest of us !” 

‘‘ O Cousin Philip,” I cried, in a burst of gratitude ; 
“ thank you a thousand times ! I hope she will ! I 
hope I shall die before she does ; for you know heaven 
is a very large place, and it would be so delightful to 
meet somebody she knows ; and I should never tire, I 
think, standing at the golden gate and waiting for 
her. And now, if we must really go to Hollyhoxy 
and not to Venice, tell me something more about my 
dog.” 

You see what a very child I was, quick to grieve 
and as quick to forget. 

“ With pleasure,” said my cousin. “ In the first place, 
he is no larger than that,” measuring with his hands. 
“ Of course, he will grow very fast in a year, and per- 
haps grow graceful ; that we cannot tell ; he is clumsy 
enough now. In the next place, he is as white as a 
snowball, and, curled up, not unlike one. Next, he 
has a distinguished pedigree, and a remarkably hand- 
some face. I think you ought to be very fond of your 
cousin’s gift.” 

“ I am ! I shall be,” I answered. “ It makes Hol- 
lyhoxy seem pleasanter to look forward to meeting 
my pet. I knwn I shall love him so dearly I” 

“ Love, love ! it is always love that draws,” mur- 
mered Cousin Philip. ‘‘ It is the only true prepara- 
tion for the House Beautiful above, and for the blended 
glories of the new heaven and the new earth, wherein 
dwelleth righteousness forever.” 


26 


GRANDMOTHER NORMAN DT, 


I thought Cousin Philip was preaching to himself, 
and the words made but a slight impression on me 
then. I could think only of Blossom waiting for me 
at home, and I ran, half sliding across the polished 
floor, to tell my mother. 

Looking in before I entered, I saw a picture I shall 
never forget. 


CHAPTER III. 


MY MOTHER REASONS WITH ME. 

M y mother’s room was divided from the main 
drawing-room by a heavy rep curtain, which, 
when it was closed, I always made a feint of peeping 
in, by bringing it round my face and under my chin, 
thus transforming myself into a Red Riding Hood, as 
I was pleased to think. On the great, wide, silk 
draped couch just opposite, my mother had thrown 
herself, as if in extreme agony. One hand was 
pressed to her side, the other outstretched and rigid, 
while her soft, luminous eyes, were lifted, imploringly 
and full of anguish, to heaven. I must have startled 
her ; for I flew to her side, with a cry of terror. 

‘‘Mother! mother! what is it? You are suffer- 
ing !” 

In another moment, my mother had lifted herself 
into a sitting posture. Great drops of agony stood 
on her forehead. 

“ Hush, my darling !” she said, in a low voice ; “ do 
not speak of this — it is over. I am better now. Some- 
times I have such turns at night — seldom in the day- 
time. I would have spared you the knowledge — 
but — ” her lip trembled. A tear hung on her eye- 
lids. 

I could only stand, and gaze at her, still trembling 
from the acuteness of the pain the sight of her anguish 


28 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


had given me ; but, as I saw the light soften in her 
eyes, and that terrible glaze disappear, and the beau- 
tiful color return, I began to sob, in my great thank- 
fulness. 

‘‘ I don’t wish to sadden your young life, darling,” 
she said, in her low, sweet voice ; — I have never heard 
another like it; — ‘‘ and you know, that generally I am 
very happy. But I have some little pain to bear, at 
times. It don’t last long, however ; and, as I know 
nobody can cure it, I keep it to myself whenever I 
can. God helps me do that, darling ; it is not very 
hard.” 

‘‘ But why should you suffer, when you look so well 
and so beautiful ?” I sobbed. 

That is a question I dare not ask, my dear. I be- 
lieve it is God’s will, therefore I try to be patient.” 

“ Then I don’t like God, if He wills you to suffer !” 
I cried, with a sudden outburst of anger, and stamp- 
ing my foot in a rage. I felt as if my throat would 
burst, and my eyes burned till I could almost see the 
fire in them. 

My mother got hold of my hands in some way, and 
held me with her soothing touch, saying nothing, but 
looking, oh ! looking at me so pitifully. 

‘‘ God does not will it, my love, in the way you 
think. Do you remember the acid that was spilled 
upon papa’s fine pictures ?” 

Yes, I remembered perfectly, and told her so: it 
bit all the way through. There were thirty or forty 
lovely engravings, large and small ; but they were all 
spoiled. 


MT MOTHER REASONS WITH ME. 29 

“ Yes,” said mamma, it bit all the way through. 
That is the trouble with me.” 

I looked at her with wider eyes. 

God didn’t drop the acid there, but its constitu- 
ent parts were all of His creation. It was His will 
that those parts, united, should bite, or eat through. 
So with me ; and I want you to understand me 
thoroughly. Generations ago, this peculiar disease, 
through some sin, doubtless, fastened upon some an- 
cestor of mine ; and, so, passing over some genera- 
tions and touching others, it has at last come down 
to me. Don’t you see how natural it is ?” 

‘‘ Then shall I have it ?” I asked. 

God forbid, my darling ! No, I think I can say 
with certainty, that you will escape it ; for all your 
father’s thought, and mine, has been so to train you 
that the seed may never even germinate. But you do 
not feel that anger against God now ?” 

I shook my head ; I was ashamed. 

‘‘ Are we going to Hollyhoxy ?” I asked. 

“Yes, dear; I want to see the grand old place be- 
fore” — 

“ Don’t say it, mamma !” I almost shrieked, throw- 
ing myself, in a passion of tears, at her side, as I held 
my hand to her lips. 

“ I must say it, my darling ; and you must hear it, 
and learn to look forward to it. I have been won- 
dering how I should find the courage to tell you, and 
wonderfully has He prepared me. Papa knows it ; 
Cousin Philip knows it ; strangers, even, see it in my 
face. Sit down, daughter, and let me tell you where 


30 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


I am going ; and — yes, I can say it, even to my sweet 
child — how I long to be gone.” 

I must have been closeted with my mother an hour 
or more, when my father came in, and found us clasped 
in each other’s arms. 

It was not her touch, not even her love, that thrilled 
me so deeply now, as the sweet faith and trust which 
made her description of Heaven unutterably beautiful. 
I looked upon her as no longer mine, but as belong- 
ing to the angels. 

She had told me, also. Cousin Philip’s history. It 
seemed, that he was only her cousin by marriage, — 
that, some j^ears before, he had met with a great dis- 
appointment. The young lady to whom he was at- 
tached, being the only remaining single daughter of 
an aged and infirm mother, decided that it was her 
duty to remain with her. 

The mother,” said mamma, in a still lower voice, 
and looking very pale, objected to the marriage of 
each of her children ; and only this last one has obeyed 
her, from a sense of filial duty. Perhaps to her only 
may be pronounced the ‘ Well done, good and faithful 
servant !’ ” It was years after before I understood 
the import of this speech. 

‘‘ Oh, now I know what he meant when he told 
me of the little girl he used to love so dearly, even 
when he was as young as I am,” I said. “ But why 
can’t he get somebody else for a wife?” 

Mamma smiled, as she answered, ‘‘ That is not like 
Cousin Philip. But, though it had sent him a wan- 
derer over the face of the earth, and nearly broken 


MY MOTHER REASONS WITH ME, 31 

his heart, the trial had acted as a purifier and ballast 
to his half-wrecked manhood ; and he had come forth 
from the great sorrow of his life with all the dross 
burned out of his nature, and the nobler metal of the 
spirit refined and assimilated to a God-like nobility 
that gave him the power of a master among men. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MY FIRST LOSS, 


ARTS, glorious Paris ! was of the past. The 



JL voyage, long and dreary, was over ; and my 
mother still lived. We were all at Hollyhoxy, a 
place quite idylic in its beauty. Its name was given 
to it in this wise : — ^ 

On my first visit to the old homestead, — I was then 
only three years old, — I caught sight of some flowers 
that reminded me of the hollyhocks in the garden of 
our Paris home, and stretching out my arms, I cried, 
delightedly, — 

“ Hollyhoxy !” 

“ She has given the place a name,” said my father, 
turning laughingly to my mother; ‘Hienceforth our 
American home shall be called Hollyhoxy.” 

And such a home ! Just on the borderland be- 
tween country and city, it comprised the beauty of a 
rural landscape with the easiest facilities of reaching 
the conveniences and pleasures of cultivated town- 
life. A perfect network of trees surrounded the 
house, enclosing wide lawns, glorious gardens, with 
whose incense the air was heavy all through the 
spring and summer seasons, and where flashed the 
light of fountains all day long. My mother revelled 
in her garden. There was a great easy-chair, made 
of gnarled branches, which could always be covered 


MT FIRST LOSS. 


33 


with cushions and spreads, and around which a kingly 
elm made a curtain of cool shade, where she would 
sit, with me beside her, for hours, sometimes pointing 
out the perfect beauty of the landscape, the wonder- 
ful coloring of woods and skies, sometimes listening 
to me as I read. 

It did not pain me now so much to think of the 
possible future, though my heart clung to the frail, 
l)eautiful creature, clothed with the light of Heaven 
as with a garment ; for I think even then she lived in 
Heaven. 

Blossom was often our conpanion ; and his queer 
little lump of a body, and his awkward attempts at 
gamboling on the grass, were always a source of 
amusement to the dying woman. Yes, I knew now 
that she was dying. 

When I am gone, Ada, you must be every thing 
to your father,” she said to me one day. “ He has 
been every thing to me. He took me from a home 
of wealth ; and, when my proud family shut their 
doors upon their disinherited child, he made a solemn 
declaration, that I should yet have every luxury to 
which I had been accustomed. Nobly he kept his 
word. Wealth seemed to pour in upon him from 
every avenue ; and since then my rich kinsmen have 
seen fit to take back all they have said. But I trem- 
ble when I think how successful he has been, and 
still is, — how every wish seems to be given to him. 
I tremble for him when the trial comes. There is in- 
herent in him a certain morbid tendency, which it 
must be your office, if possible, to counteract.” 

3 


34 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


“ O but, mamma, what can I do ?” I half sobbed. 

‘‘You can do every thing by loving him dearly 
through all. You can do mucli” — here my mother 
paused a moment — “ by telling him, by-and-bye, wliat 
I have told you. The afflictive hand of discij dne 
sometimes unfolds the sweetest pages in human na- 
ture ; it may be so with him. 

“ I hope you are a Christian child,” she said, some 
moments after ; “I want you to live the ‘ life beauti- 
ful.’ There is such a life, possible under all the ills 
and disappointments that await every human being. 
And, living thus, lead your father to the light. Talk 
of me, and of Heaven, in some twilight hour. lie is 
a good man; he would not wrong a human being, or 
his own nature, willingly. But, as to his religious 
views, he is singularly reticent. Go to our minister ; 
I have had long talks with him about you both. I 
am afraid,” she added, with a broken voice and a 
pained look, “ that your father has no settled relig- 
ious faith. He has been so prosperous that he has 
learned to look only to himself. And to be a doubter, 
my darling — oh ! it is to me so terrible, so terrible ! 
Life is a long, dark mystery of silence to such, and 
full of deep, treacherous quicksands, wherein the 
doubter plunges and is lost, unless some helping 
hand is near. If it were only bridged by faith, then 
there would be no danger.” 

“ O mamma ! how dark it will be when you are 
gone !” I cried in my anguish. 

“ Try to think of me as with you still,” she said., 
softly. “There is no separation to those who love.” 


Mr FIRST LOSS. 


35 


“ But, mamma, I am not a Christian,” I sobbed. 

“You are trying to be,” was her gentle reply. 

“ Oh ! all the time.” 

“ Then, my darling, if you will only keep trying 
all your life, and only trying, I have no fear for you. 
The light will shine some day. Only, remember al- 
ways, that He loves you, and Jesus, my Savior, will 
also be yours.” 

She had never talked to me before quite so freely ; 
but, in my childish way, I had always more or less 
comprehended her life, and that was a sermon from 
day to day. 

Alas ! darkness came before light. The waxen fig- 
ure in its casket seemed too vitally beautiful to be 
put into darkness, as it lay in the great east parlor ; 
and the lovely flowers that bloomed everywhere, on 
her breast, on her coflSn, made the atmosphere op- 
pressive* 


CHAPTER V. 


UNDISCIPLINED. 

B ut all that had gone before was as nothing, com- 
pared to our return to the empty house. My 
poor father could not endure it. He had not shed a 
tear at the grave ; and I, when I looked at him there, 
recognized the full weight of the responsibility which 
my mother had put upon me, to try and console him. 

The gloom and pallor of his face shocked me ; also, 
his changed manner towards me. When I tried lo 
throw myself into his arms, he repulsed me. 1 still 
hung on to him ; but, though wdth some degree of 
gentleness, yet he released my hands. 

‘‘ Go, child, go he said, bitterly. “ I have lost 
all that made life endurable and, catching up his 
hat, with the long crape dangling, he thrust it on his 
head and went out into the night. In vaiu I tried lo 
talk to him of mamma and Heaven. 

“ You! what do you know^ of Heaven?” he cried, 
with almost savage bitterness ; ‘‘ you, a prating child !” 

I was alone ; for, at that moment, I knew that my 
father’s heart had gone from me. 

Oh I the desolation of thai repulse, of that sad hour 
when this terrible truth came to me. It almost changed 
my nature. I, a girl of thirteen, who till now had 
never known other than the most transient trouble, to 
lose fcither and mother at one blow. 


UNDISCIPLINED, 


37 


I threw myself down on the great lambswool mat, 
and wept a child’s bitter tears. The room was very 
dark, save for the fitfully white gleams thrown over 
it now and then by the fire, which was always lighted 
towards evening. 

There was a slight rustle, as of garments ; and I 
thought I heard my name called. You who have 
loved and lost, can you remember those supreme mo- 
ments when a wave of strange, bright hope has broken 
over your soul, and, just for one sweet, blissful second, 
the dead are in your arms again ? That slight noise 
had brought back my mother to me. I almost forgot 
that she was under-ground. On my knees, I threw 
my arms out, yearningly, crying, “ Mother ! mother !” 

For only answer, I felt a cold touch on my hand; 
and, looking down with a chill sensation of fright, 
there was Blossom, gazing up at me with an expres- 
sion that seemed at the moment almost angelic, and 
that made me feel as if he knew all about it. Yes, 
God was good. He had sent me some little consola- 
tion, bereaved as I was ; and I caught the curly crea- 
ture. to my heart, bedewing his coat plentifully with 
my tears, while his stumpy tail wagged as fast and 
cheerfully as if it were a human tongue trying to cheer 
me with consoling words. 

From this hour,” I sobbed, snuggling my face in 
his warm neck, “ you shall be my dearest friend !” 

Nurse, whom I had sent away, ventured to look in 
after awhile, and smiled, as she saw me carressing 
Blossom. 

“Where is your papa?” she asked. “The tea is 
waiting.” 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


‘‘ He took his hat and went out,” I answered, ready 
to sob again. 

Nurse lifted her hands in holy horror. 

‘‘Who ever heard of such a thing?” she cried. 
“ His wife scarcely under the sod, and he gone out !” 

“ He couldn’t bear the house : I don’t wonder. I’d 
go out, too, if I dared,” was my reply. Muchas I had 
suffered but now, I could not bear to hear my father 
blamed. 

“ Well, then, you’ll come to tea, deary; there’s a 
bright light there, and it’s too gloomy here,” she said, 
coaxingly. 

“ No ; I don’t want any thing. I hate the light ! 
Let me sit here with Blossom. I am content. I 
couldn’t eat ; it would choke me. Oh ! if I could 
have you back, mamma, just one little moment !” and 
I threw myself down again, sobbing. 

“ Poor child !” said the nurse, and went out, wiping 
her eyes. 

Presently the housekeeper came in, a heavy fea- 
tured, stately personage, who was a great deal too 
dignified to stoop to coaxing. I had never taken 
kindly to the woman. Children and dogs, it is said, 
can detect shams in human beings when nobody else 
can. My mother had given this woman the place out 
of great charity ; and, having once entered as house- 
keeper, she knew how to retain her post. 

There are some persons whose lives are one long 
series of plots. Nothing with them is perfected, ex- 
cept through management. I had detected the house- 
keeper with false headaches, in false errands and little 


UNDISCIPLINED, 


39 


underhand tricks which she thought perhaps a child 
might not notice or understand. Consequently, I had 
no faith in her ; neither had Blossom, young as he 
was. 

“ Miss Ada, you must have your tea,” she said, with 
some attempt at gentleness. “ You will be sick, which 
goodness forbid now !” 

‘‘I’m not going to be sick, and I don’t want my 
tea, Mrs. Davis. Please go out and I hid my face 
again in Blossom. 

“ Miss Ada,” said the housekeeper, coming a step 
or two nearer, “ there’s nobody here to tell you what 
you must do and what you mustn’t ; and so I take it 
upon myself to in%i^t upon your coming out to your 
tea.” 

For answer, — her allusion to my dead mother stung 
me, — I am sorry to say I took off my slipper and 
threw it at her. It hit her exactly in the middle of a 
too prominent nose ; and one can hardly blame the 
poor woman that she was very angry. She went out 
of the room with my name on her lips, coupled with 
a very inelegant adjective. 

Not long after that, as Blossom and I sat like two 
statues, it seemed to me that the door opened and 
footsteps advanced. I thought it might be my father, 
and waited, with a wild throbbing in all my veins, 
for him to give me some token of his presence. 

“ Och ! now, the sorrow of her, poor darlint,” I 
heard muttered low at my ear. “ An’ no wonther ; 
for the swatest woman iver drew breath is laying low, 
this minnit. Me own heart’s ready to break for her.” 


40 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


I looked up, with a wild cry. Another minute and 
I was in Bridget’s motherly arms, and we were sob- 
bing together. She understood me, servant though 
she was; she had always understood me* She and 
Pat, her husband, who was our man-of-all-work, had 
been at the homestead for twenty years. 

“ An’ here’s the bit dog keepin’ you company ! and 
the crater’s not had a taste of vituals for the day, 
scarcely. I’d not wonther if he was starved.” 

“ Oh ! give him something to eat immediately, 
Bridget,” I said. 

“ An’ so I will ; but I think the crature’ll take it 
best from your own hands, daiiint, and so I made 
bould to bring in a sup and a bite for ye, here, on the 
little silver waiter, d’ye mind, so ye and Blossom can 
take your tay together.” 

Oh ! how good of you, Bridget,” I said, wiping 
the streaming tears from my eyes ; and that sad night 
Blossom and I took tea together, and Bridget waited 
upon us. 

I went to sleep with Blossom tucked in my arms, 
and did not know till next morning that my father’s 
non-appearance until a late hour had frightened the 
servants, who went out to search for him, and found 
him at last, prostrate upon my mother’s grave. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A TALK WITH COUSIN PHILIP. 

HREE years had passed. I was sixteen, beanti- 



1 ful, and my own mistress. My father, from 
the day of my mother’s funeral, had ceased to inter- 
est himself in me ; and, indeed, during two out of 
three of the intervening years, I had been to board- 
ing-school, and returned home at my own request. 
If I wanted money, I had only to ask for it : for all 
the rest, amusements, friends, acquaintances, I must 
please myself. 

I carried the memory of my mother with me al- 
ways ; but, some way, the presence that had once 
been so overpowering was now the long, lingering 
picture of a tender dream. All the more serious rec- 
ollections were crowded out. I was rich, mistress of 
my own time, bowed down to, looked up to ; and the 
sunshine of prosperity made my path a golden one. 
I do not know that I was particularly worldly minded ; 
but I am sure that 1 was not in the least degree spir- 
itually minded. I had been much with people who 
considered religion old fashioned and behind the age, 
which had begotten in me a certain carelessness about 
sacred things. My Bible, which in my mother’s day 
I had never passed the twenty-four hours without 
reading, was like a sealed book to me now. Some of 
the lighter novels — thank God ! the worse sort never 


42 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


fell into my hands — took its place. At church, if I 
thought of the sermon, it was only to criticise ; at 
home, I was full of plans, and an active brain kept 
me always busy at something. But, at times, 1 grew 
painfully aware that mine was not the life beauti- 
ful ” which my mother wanted me to live. 

The refurnishing of Hollyhoxy had lately taken 
place under my supervision. The house was so built 
that all the apartments on the first fioor, with the aid 
of draperies, could be thrown into one ; and, when 
newly furnished and well lighted, the effect was very 
charming. 

There were two rooms which I rarely entered — my 
father’s study and his private sitting-room, in the 
west wing. As I before mentioned, since he had re- 
pulsed me, after my mother’s funeral, he had taken but 
little personal interest in me, except to see that I was 
provided with teachers in music and drawing. Other 
attentions than these he never seemed to think I re- 
quired. If he sometimes met me during the day, it 
was with an absent kind of smile that pained me by 
its lack of expression. The morbidness of his nature, 
which my mother had alluded to, now absorbed the 
whole man. He seldom spoke to me, except on mat- 
ters of business, and never, to the day of his death, 
mentioned my mother’s name ; nor would I have 
dared at any time to speak of her to him. And, ah ! 
I loved him so ; all the more, I think, because sep- 
arated from him by a wall I could neither see nor 
break down. That part of my mother’s commands I 
never ceased to fulfil — night and day I loved him, 


A TALK WITH COUSIN PHILIP. 43 

and sometimes woke up with my face all wet with 
tears, because, in some happy dream, I fancied he had 
kissed me. 

He could not have been more indulgent. He was 
quite willing that I should fill the house with my 
friends ; go where I pleased, with a proper escort ; 
and do as I liked in all things, after my studies were 
over, — provided, that I would never trouble him. 
Thrown thus upon my own resources at so early an 
age, deprived of the influence of a mother at the very 
season when I needed her most, is it a wonder that I 
grew up undisciplined, with an overweening sense of 
my own importance, since I had but to order and be 
obeyed. Still, I think I was generous in temper, 
though proud of m}^ position. 

Mrs. Davis had never quite forgiven me for throw- 
ing my slipper at her nose on that terrible night of 
the funeral ; and, as I had always found it impossible 
to like her, I had given up trying. I would willingly 
have dismissed her ; but, as I have hinted before, she 
knew how to hold her own, and I now know that she 
exerted an undue influence upon my father. 

I had a new maid, as my old nurse was married and 
gone away ; and Martha Voles had been in my ser- 
vice nearly a year. She was a tall, handsome girl, 
gifted with the faculty of making herself perfectly in- 
dispensable to one’s use and happiness, and sufficiently 
educated to warrant my making her more or less a 
companion, particularly as she flattered my self-love 
by a deferential manner, that, as I see it now, could 
only have been assumed for a purpose. 


44 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


Blossom had grown to a magnificent size, and was 
my only intimate friend, brute though he was. There 
seemed to be a perfect understanding between us, as 
befitted two boon companions. White, tall, sparkling 
from head to foot, with an almost human conscious- 
ness vitalizing his instinct, his eyes luminous as if 
there were two suns behind them, his sympathy com- 
plete, — is it any wonder that I loved him dearly ? He 
knew, by a glance of my eye, or my finger, when to 
be silent and when to prepare for a frolic. On nearly 
all occasions, he was by my side. I really needed no 
other protector. All night he slept stretched just in- 
side my door. For my maid, Martha Voles, he never 
manifested any friendship. He would allow her to 
caress him ; but he never responded, and, if she spoke 
to him, would turn his beautiful head away, with an 
indifference, that, if human, would have been simply 
insulting. 

Once or twice I caught a glimpse of the girl’s black 
eyes, when looking at Blossom, that troubled me ; but 
it seemed only natural that she should dislike him. 

As for me, I believe I was rather pleased when 
Blossom turned from everybody else to me — with one 
or two exceptions. Cousin Philip, — who had been 
travelling, but was now settled for a time at Little- 
ford, boarding in the red, two-storied country inn 
about half a mile from Hollyhoxy, because, he said, 
the sheets smelt of lavender and the kitchen was al 
was clean, — was Blossom’s second love. Ah ! how 
dear was Cousin Philip. He seemed, to me, almost 
to take the place of my father ; and I think I looked 


A TALK WITH COUSIN PHILIP, 45 

Up to him, though he was a much younger man, as if 
he had been. 

He came over to Hollyhoxy when I returned from 
boarding-school. He said he had made his fortune, 
and had nothing to do but to read and write books 
and oversee me. It was delightful to look forward to 
his coming. I made pleasant little plans for his rec- 
reation when he came. We sang and walked and 
rode together. He was to me what my father should 
have been, and his presence was one continued holi- 
day. 

‘‘Why won’t you leave that funny little public 
house, and stay at Hollyhoxy?” I asked him one 
day, as I sat in my mother's favorite chair on the 
lawn. Blossom was at my side, shining like silver 
from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail. 

“You don’t know what a comfort that little house 

is, dear, with its wide rooms and low ceilings. A 
breath of my youth comes back as I enter it and 
smell the herbs on the staircase. Then, the view is 
beautiful, the host obliging, and Mrs. Stearns an in- 
comparable cook. I can sit and write, with nothing 
to hinder, from hour to hour, with plenty of wide, 
breezy upland and blue sky about me. There’s a 
queer old body called Andrew, with crooked legs, 
who makes it a point, four times a day, to hobble in 
and see if I am comfortable. He never says a word ; 
but, if the fire wants mending, or the window shut- 
ting, or anj^ thing goes wrong, he knows and corrects 

it. I shouldn’t know how to get along without poor 
old Andrew. But I love to come here and have a 


46 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


talk or a sing with you— though sometimes — I — • 
think — ” 

“ You think papa don’t like it,” I said, with my 
old-time bluntness. 

I’m sure he don’t ; he is always uneasy till I go, 
when he knows I am here.” 

‘‘I don’t understand it,” I said, with a sigh ; ‘‘papa 
is a mystery to me. Think how he used to love me 
when mamma was alive.” 

“ And he still loves you, no doubt, only disease has 
changed him.” 

“ Disease ! I am sure he is well enough,” I said. 

“ Bodily, yes ; mentally, no,” said Cousin Philip. 
“ His mind is darkened through the blow which he 
never would fairly admit was coming. I foresaw this 
on the day of the funeral, when he seemed unwilling 
to speak to me. Before that, he was always tender 
and affectionate. Poor man ! The world is full of 
sunshine ; but, oh ! what shadows lie, like cold, bleak 
mountains, between homes and graves, between hearts 
and hopes, between earth and Heaven even. Your 
father’s soul is full of shadows ; he has no Christian 
hope.” 

“ Then,” I exclaimed, “how can he live ?” 

“ He does not live ; his face is that of an automa- 
ton. I have seen him walk with his hands behind 
him, and, for an hour, could have counted just so 
many seconds between each step : never any more.” 

“ But he thinks.” 

“ After a fashion, yes ; but probably of nothing but 
the past, and of his money schemes. Those come to 


A TALK W/TH COUSIN PHILIP. 


47 


him as if by inspiration. It seems as if fate, having 
left him nothing else, delights to fill his coffers with 
gold. I never saw such a prosperous man.” 

“ Is there such a thing as fate, Cousin Philip ?” 

“ To me, it is only another name for providence, 
r sometimes think, when I look at your father. There 
is a body with all the soul drained out.” 

“ O cousin, what a horrible thought !” I cried. 

“ Well, what else can I think ? Your father may 
be charitable as to gifts ; but what active part does 
he take in any of the wonderful things going on 
about us ? He never attends church ; and, when 
your mother was alive, it used to be the prettiest 
sight in the parish to me — your father and mother 
sitting, with you between them, in the old family 
pew. Now the artificial has supplanted the divine. 
I believe your father has brought himself to doubt 
religion, and even God.” 

“ I hope you are mistaken,” I said, secretly uneasy 
on account of the turn our conversation had taken ; 
for was I not myself practically a doubter ? and I did 
not care just then to have my conscience stirred up, 
remembering that the lightest cause, the smallest ex- 
cuse, was sufficient to keep mo from church, and that 
I really felt no interest in such matters when I came 
to probe my own consciousness. 


CHAPTER VIL 


MY MAID MARTHA- 


UST then a figure came out of a side door, sweep- 



ing long garments over the grass, and moving 
towards the housekeeper’s window. 

“ Who is that ?” asked Cousin Philip. 

“ That’s Martha Voles ; you’ve seen her, my maid.” 

‘‘Yes, I think I have, but always in repose. A 
right queenly walk she has ; but I don’t fancy her.” 

“ Neither does Blossom,” said I, smiling. 

“ Sagacious fellow ! Let me advise you to distrust 
whoever Blossom does not like.” 

“ But, Cousin Philip, Martha is a very nice girl,” 
I said, “ and more like a friend than a servant. She 
has ever so many accomplishments, and suits me in 
ever}" particular. She can alter and trim dresses 
beautifully, do up my hair like a French modiste^ read 
to me when I am tired, talk well, and even play my 
accompaniments when I sing by myself. I am sure 
I don’t know how I should get along without her 
now.” 

“ Why in the world did she enter your service, or 
anybody’s service, indeed if she is all that you de- 
scribe her to be ?” asked Cousin Philip. 

“ I don’t know. All I do know is, that I needed 
just exactly such a person, alone as I am, with nobody 
near that I care to speak to, when you are away, but 


Mr MAID MARTHA, 


49 


Bridget ; and, good and kind as she is, she is scarcely 
a companion for me. And I did not dream of her 
value at first. It grew upon me, unfolded itself little 
by little, until she became quite a study. I suspect 
I have not found her all out yet.” 

‘‘ No, I fancy not,” said Cousin Philip, gravely and 
rather grimly. How old is she ?” 

‘‘ Only eighteen ; a little more than two years older 
than I am.” 

Only eighteen !” thundered Cousin Philip, lifting 
himself from the leafy couch on which he had been 
lying ; only eight and twenty, you mean.” 

‘‘ Why, Cousin Philip !” I was very much aston- 
ished, and rose also. 

‘‘ With that walk, and that figure ! only eighteen ! 
humph ! Well, let it go,” he said, rapidly. ‘‘ If she 
has deceived you in the matter of her age, it is an 
offence of which more than one of your sex might 
plead guilty. But where did you get her ? What 
references did she bring ?” 

“ None,” I said. 

“No references ! no written certificate ! no letter 
from any friend ! no family ! But how could you be 
expected to know about these things — and I away ? 
She certainly told you something. Did she live any- 
where hereabouts ? Did she live in the city?” 

My cousin looked so shocked, and spoke, for him, 
in so stern and almost threatening tones that I was 
distressed, both for myself and him. 

“She came to me at a time when I was very, very 
lonesome,” I said, — “ when I had not long returned 
4 


50 


GRANDMOTHER NORMAN DT, 


from school, — and missed them all so — ^yon can’t 
think.” 

Yes I can, dear ; I know just what the feeling is,’ 
he said, soothingly. 

Bridget let her in. It was a rainy, dark, gloomy 
day ; and I was so wretched ! She told me, — Bridget, 
— that there was a young lady in the parlor, waiting 
to see me, — that she had no card with her, but she 
was very anxious to speak with me. Supposing it 
was one of my friends from the city, one of the Flori- 
mels or Laskeys, I went down, and there sat a stranger. 

“ ‘ I heard you wanted a maid,’ she said, in a low 
voice ; and you’ve no idea how sweet her voice is. 
It took me quite unawares. I didn’t know what to 
say for a moment ; but, when I had gathered my wits 
together, I replied that I did, but added, ‘ It can’t 
be possible that you are looking for such a situation.’ 

‘‘ ‘ That is what I came here for,’ she said ; and 
there were tears in her beautiful sad eye§. ‘ I have 
no mother, father, or friend : I am a stranger here . 
and only by accident learned that you wanted a maid. 
I am willing to work. I can sew and knit, make beds, 
and help in any thing I am called to do. Wages are 
of little account ; I want a home ; give me what you 
please ; only try me. If I don’t suit you, I can go 
away.’ 

Poor thing ! she seemed so lonely ! so like myself, 
that my heart warmed to her instantly. I never 
thought of asking her where she had lived, or if she 
had any references, or any thing else. I just told her 
I would try her ; so she came, and she has been here 
ever since.” 


Mr MAID MARTHA, 


51 


I dare say she had heard what a silly, little con- 
fiding thing you were,” said Cousin Philip, fondly. 
“ But didn’t it occur to you, that she dressed rather 
well for her station ?” 

“ So you have noticed that ! I thought such things 
as ladies’ dresses were of no interest to you.” 

‘‘ Neither are they in a general way ; but it is with 
reference to your welfare that I note every thing , now. 
It appears to me that her clothes are costly.” 

“Some of them are, but I suppose she has earned 
them. She formerly kept school, she says ; and she 
seems very fond of nice clothes, — fonder than I am, I 
think. But she has proved herself such a good ser- 
vant, why shouldn’t I believe her ?” 

“ Surely, why ?” said Cousin Philip, with a grave, 
amused smile ; and then he sauntered off a little way, 
whistling to himself, a habit he had when deep in 
thought. Presently hv came back, with a clouded 
brow. 

“ I wish your father would take a little more inter- 
est in matters pertaining to you. Why didn’t you 
consult with him ?” 

“ Consult with papa I you don’t think I’d have gone 
to him !” I made reply. Why, I’ve not spoken to 
him even about house matters for the year that I have 
been at home. If any thing is needed, from a towel 
to a latch-piece, Mrs. Davis comes to me, and I give 
orders either to Pat or to Drinkleigh. Drinkleigh is to 
be discharged, so Mrs. Davis says, and papa will get a 
new agent. I do hope it will be somebody who don’t 
get drunk and swear as Drinkleigh does ; it’s horrible!” 


52 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T. 

“My poor, dear child !” said Cousin Philip, with a 
glance of deep pity. “ You won’t have these trials 
to bear many years longer, I hope.” 

“ I suppose you think I shall marry by-and-bye,” I 
said, laughing. 

“ I sincerely hope you will, if the right man comes 
along. And, as for this Martha Voles, — is that her 
name ? I’ll make some enquiries, and see what I can 
find out about her. I sincerely trust she is all you 
think she is ; but some unaccountable prejudice has 
taken possession of me with regard to her antece- 
dents. Come, send Blossom for your hat, and walk 
awhile with me.” 

Blossom was off like the wind before Cousin Philip 
had finished his sentence, and came back by the time 
I had fairly risen from my seat. So, accompanied by 
my two faithful friends, I left the lawn. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


MEETING DOCTOR HENRY. 

HE roids were cool, the air was sweet, and the 



low western sun kindled leaf and branch into 


a red glory. Our way lay through a thin belt of 
woods, just enough of forest shadow and fine perspec- 
tive to allow one to think there were interminable 
forests beyond. 

Under our feet, the pine-needles slipped ; and the 
woodland blossoms were some of them very beauti- 
ful, especially the whose leaves were just 

changing to the lovely rose color that foretells their 
decay. In and out among the thick herbage, crept 
the gold-thread with its star-like flowers. 

When we emerged into the open, the road stretched 
long and white before us, bordered by tall, wide-branch- 
ing shade-trees. Small white clouds, like delicately 
cut cameos, flecked the blue-gray sky ; and the now 
low-lying sun, casting golden tints on every leaf and 
vine, made them enchanting pictures of still life. 

Presentl}^, we passed the pretty Gothic church, am- 
bitiously called ‘'All Angels and there we met the 
rector coming out of the dear old romantic parsonage, 
with its back-sloping roof and its irregular outlines. 
He was walking hurriedly past the gate, his forehead 
all curled and knotted, his necktie all ends, and his 
capacious hat thrust on the back of his head, from 


54 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


iiiider which the clustering chestnut locks fell almost 
to his eyes. 

“Why, doctor, what’s the matter?” asked Cousin 
Philip, who, knowing him intimately, was aware 
of his peculiar eccentricities. Instantly the cloud 
cleared away, leaving the broad forehead smooth and 
fair, and the large, mild, dark eyes smiled with their 
usual benignity. 

“ I’ll tell you,” he said (he always spoke rapidly 
and with short, curt sentences). “ I’m angry with 
these doubting people, these bilious growlers, who 
think the world began and will end in themselves. 
I’ve been reading some of their abominable rhodo- 
moiitades. How they do muddle things ! Now see. 
We have changed our minds over a thousand times, 
about as many changeable things. Science is a 
growth. Very well. God put all the natural world 
under the dominion of man’s progressive energies.” 

Here he stopped to tip his hat a little further back 
and to lay one foretinger over the other, a way he 
had, even in the pulpit. “ Science may, therefore, 
discover,” he went on, tapping finger on finger. 
“What it does and shall discover, however, is nothing 
new. It may be new to us, I grant you ; but to na- 
ture” — and here he straightened himself — “ it is as 
old as the world itself. Like Liliputians, we climb 
all over some of God’s sleeping mysteries, and try to 
bind them to our own use, and, with amazement, call 
them new 

I wish I could transfer the fire and energy and 
beauty with which he enunciated as he went on. 


MEETING DOCTOR HENRY, 55 

‘ Well, perhaps it is new to us. Our circle of 
vision grows larger, the light of truth stronger, and 
our capacities more intense, as we grow into these 
modern times ; but, looking from the higher plane, 
it must be something humorous to see us little people 
on the earth going wild over some of the great God’s 
old laws, which we have just found out and applied. 
Dear, dear ! after all, what small puppets we are ! — 
and how do you do. Miss Adeline, and how is your 
father ? Can’t you get him to church now and then ? 
I’m sorry, always, to find him so indisposed to have a 
chat with me. But let us hope he will come round 
right, all in good time. By the way. Miss Adeline, 
that Sunday-school weighs on my soul terribly. 
Three hundred little ones wanting to be instructed, 
and only half teachers enough. Haven’t you a little 
time to spare to the Lord, my dear, — ^just a little 
time ?” 

He did not wait for an answer, — my cheeks were 
red with conscious feeling, — ^but he drew his shovel 
hat from the extreme back of his head down to the 
very roots of his nose, nodded courteously, and passed 
on. 

‘‘What a good, good man!” said Cousin Philip, 
reverently. “ I always feel, in his presence, as if be- 
fore one of God’s messengers and he lifted his hat 
as he spoke. 

Yes, he is good,” I said ; “ the sick beds and the 
poor, and even the wicked, attest to that. But isn’t 
he very learned ?” 

“ Splendidly : one of the best Greek scholars I ever 


56 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 

knew, though in every point of theology, — which I 
maintain is the greatest of all sciences, — indeed so 
learned and so eloquent, that, if he were a lawyer, 
you would find him living in a brownstone palace in 
New York, and driving a team of fine horses if he 
wished it.” 

Then, pray, what has he come to this little place 
for ?” I asked. 

‘‘My dear, I might reply. Why did the Son of God 
come into this world of sin and death, and leave His 
Father’s glory ?” said Cousin Philip. ‘^‘No place is 
too small where there are human souls to be saved, 
and no talents too splendid to be employed in so great 
a work. That is what convinces me of the genuine- 
ness of the Gospel — great souls leave great worldly 
possibilities to work for very small profit to them- 
selves, barely a subsistence, in order to obey the Mas- 
ter’s call.” 

Just then a young man passed us on horseback. 
The horse was an ordinary hack ; but the rider sat 
superbly, and, before he turned his head away at our 
earnest gaze, I perceived that his face was well fea- 
tured and resolute, that he had handsome whiskers, 
and that his e^^es were dark and remarkably penetrat- 
ing. 

“ That’s a fine looking young fellow,” said Cousin 
Philip. I like a man of that sort — a splendid figure 
too. Do you know who he is ?-^ anybody living here- 
abouts ?” 

No ; he was a stranger to me. I could give my 
cousin no information. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE blacksmith’s FORGE AND LITTLE POLLY. 

I N sight of the old forge ! its sides all reddened, 
making the dull, black rafters above more than 
ever conspicuous. The ruddy fire threw out long lines 
of vivid light ; the forge resounded with the heavy 
but skilled blows of the artisan ; and there, grandly 
outlined in the dusky splendor of the fiame, stood Ben 
Riddle, the blacksmith. His white shirt, massive 
shoulders, handsome, fiorid face, and leather apron, 
formed a picture more glowing than ever the trained 
hand of the professional artist could transfer. We 
stood a moment, in the fast deepening twilight, to 
look our fill. Outside, the dreamy silence was only 
intensified by the chirp of the cricket, the occasional 
laugh of a child, or the dull droning of wheels, bring- 
ing home the empty market carts. 

Presently Ben stopped work, and came to the door, 
passing his large hand over his head. How wild he 
looked ! his hair straggling fifty different ways over 
his bold forehead, the black door framing him, and the 
lusty fire in the shop making a luminous background. 

‘‘ Going to see Polly, miss ?” he asked, as he sud- 
denly discovered us. 

‘‘ Do you think she will care ?” I asked, coming for- 
ward. 

“ O yes, it’s one of her good days ; and I’ve took 


58 GRANDMOTM^J^ NORMANDT. . 

notice she’s generally. l^^Jtter after you’ve bin in ; so 
does my woman. .1 tiope^you’ll do us that favor.” 

“ Thank you, Ben.;’!. and I introduced Cousin Philip. 

Shall I find Polly down-stairs ?” 

‘‘ Yes, indeed ; dawn-stairs I expect, and as fine as 
a fiddle, poor lass.” 

Leaving Cousin Philip to talk with the blacksmith, 
I crossed the road, followed by Blossom, and knocked 
at the door of Ben’s tidy little house. Mrs. Riddle 
presented herself, a thin, homely woman, with a large 
mouth and freckled face, her hair done up on the top 
of her head about the size of a walnut, and a comb 
two inches wide sufficing to keep the grayish brown 
knob in place. 

‘‘ I’m real glad to see you,” she said, slowly, looking 
wistfully down the long road, then standing aside for 
me to pass into the tidy but stuffy parlor. Polly’s 
real bright to-day — for her;” and, going to the foot 
of the stairs, she called the girl’s name twice, in a loud 
voice. 

I had seated myself in the small horsehair rocker, 
when I heard a strange, rustling noise on the stairs, 
and presently Polly stood before me in all the wed- 
<iing finery, even to the veil, the gloves, and a pretty, 
faded bouquet of flowers, that looked as if it had been 
kept with great care. 

I’m so glad j'ou’ve come in time !” she cried, run- 
ning forward to meet me, and greeting me with a 
bright smile. 

“ In time for what, Polly ?” I asked. 

‘‘ For the wedding, of course and, as she stood 


THE BLACKSMITH'S FORGE. 


59 


there, the red in her cheeks and the mist-like muslin 
falling about her, I could readily excuse the poor 
young fellow, so much above her in station, who had 
hoped to make her his wife. She brightened the 
whole room, this lovely Polly Riddle ; and her bear- 
ing was as gentle, her motions were as graceful, as 
those of any little lady to the manor born. 

“ I^m expecting him every moment,” she said, in a 
slightly flurried manner. ‘‘ How do I look ?” and her 
fingers fluttered among the ribbons. 

‘‘ As sweet as a picture, dear,” was my answer. 

‘‘ O thank you ; I’m so glad you think so. You 
are one of his station in life, while I am humble and 
poor. He is going to take me to the city ; but he 
says I shall see them sometimes. I could never forget 
them; you don’t think it would be possible for me to 
forget themP 

‘‘ It ought not to be, Polly,” I said. 

“ Of course not. Well, I must be quiet, and not get 
nervous. I shouldn’t like to have the wedding turn into 
a funeral, you know. There have been such cases.” 

“You mustn’t think of such a possibility,” I said. 

“ Of course not; but do you — I — get so tired — so 
tired of waiting !” Her voice sank into a whisper. 

“ I remember one wedding, where the groom was 
brought in stark dead, killed !” she added, in a hol- 
low voice. “ It broke the wedding up, and the mar- 
riage bells began to toll a funeral march, and the 
bride fell down like one dead ; and never, never after 
could she bear to hear the whistle of a steam car — oh ! 
there it is now — in the distance — and my Harry is 
coming !” 


6o 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


She sat down in a chair, all a heap of white, and 
held her breath till I went over to her and took one 
of her small gloved hands in mine. Poor child ! they 
had reared her so tenderly, their beautiful one flower. 
No touch of toil had fallen on her, no common tasks 
— and all for this ! 

Presently Blossom put his white face against the 
window, and began to whine. At that Poll}' came out 
of her trance, shivered a little, and looked appealingly 
into my face. 

“ Do you think God cares ?” she murmured, her 
gaze so unspeakably sad, compounded of childish wis- 
dom and childish doubt, that I felt the tears coming 
into my eyes. 

“ I know He does,” was my faltering reply. 

“ Then, if He cares and knows all about it, it will 
be best to wait, won’t it ?” 

‘‘ T think it will,” I said. 

Sometimes it seems as if all the world forgets me, 
Harry and all.” 

“ I won’t forget you, Polly ; and Harry — Harry 
never forgets, I ventured, taking courage from her 
sympathy and her quiet. 

0 no — only it’s weary waiting so long; sometimes 
I think it will be always waiting, only waiting, till I 
die and her poor head dropped on her hands. 

1 wish you could stay with me ; you help me so 
much.” 

I wish I could ; but I will come again soon. Now 
if I were you, I would take off that pretty dress, and 
keep it till Harry comes.” 


THE BLACKSMITHS FORGE. 


6l 


‘I will,” she said, rising wearily and kissing me 
good-bye. When I left the room, her mother was 
standing at the door. 

“ Do you think she’s better ?” she asked, eagerly. 

I hope so,” was all I could say. 

‘‘Now I’ve got to go and help her take off all them 
things ; she gets so dead tired when she puts them on. 
It’s only lately she’s been able to a bear the sight of 
’em. I’m sure I don’t know what to think — whether 
it’s for better or for worse.” 

I found Cousin Philip standing inside the forge ; 
and the soft glow of the fire enwrapped him as with 
a glory, while he talked to Ben in the intervals of the 
sharp clang of smitten steel. 

“ Ah ! there you are, little one,” he said. “ Good- 
bye, Mr. Riddle ; I’ll come again.” 

“ Uncommonly fine mind, that great hulking black- 
smith ; though he handles English as if it were a 
horseshoe, to be beaten into any shape he pleases. 
What a contagion there is in hearty work, heartily 
done ! I felt as if I wanted to take hold and hammer 
the iron myself.” 

‘‘ Did he sa}" any thing about Polly ?” 

“Not a word, except when you went away, he 
sighed, ‘ Poor little Polly !’ What is the matter with 
Polly !” 

“ Her mind is gone,” I answered. “ Two years 
ago she was engaged to a young lawyer by the name 
of Thorne. They were to be married, and she was 
dressed in her bridal outfit, waiting for him, when that 
terrible accident took place at Berry Creek, not half 


62 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


a mile from our house, and he was one of the killed. 
The shock unsettled her reason, and she has never 
recovered.” 

Cousin Philip walked on in silence. I could see 
that his heart was touched. 


CHAPTER X. 


FINDING THE GLOVE, 


ARKNESS had gathered over the pines as we 



entered the narrow, woody path leading home- 
ward. I leaned on Cousin Philip’s arm ; and Blos- 
som, like a shadowy ghost, bounded forward and 
back, making his way to the house by a series of 
zigzag movements, which were very ludicrous. 

How pretty the house looked as we came in sight 
of it. The lights on the lower floor streamed ont on 
the lawn ; for the curtains were not yet closed. I 
coaxed Cousin Philip to take tea with us (we fol- 
lowed the country custom of dining at noon). 

“ Cousin, is this your glove ?” I asked, as I picked 
up a pearly tinted kid glove, that lay nestling among 
the lace drapery on the carpet, just under the win- 
dow. 

“Mine! I never wore that color in my life,” he 
said, “ even for evening dress.” 

“ Then whose can it be ? it is certainly a gentle- 
man’s glove.” 

“ It certainly is,” he made answer, comparing it 
with his own. “You see it’s the same size that I 
wear.” 

I ran out into the hall. Bridget was just coming 
into the supper room, followed by Mrs. Davis. 

“ Supper is ready,” said the latter. 


64 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


I’ll be down in a moment,” was my reply, and 
went up-stairs. My room was in admirable order, 
the gas lighted, flowers on the table ; and Martha 
Voles, putting some last touches at the bureau, came 
forward to take my wraps. 

“ Anybody been here, Martha?” I asked. 

‘‘Nobody, miss;” adding, presently, — “that I know 
of.” 

“ Then whose is this glove ?” I asked. Her cheeks 
flushed a dull, dark red, and she affected to examine 
the glove. 

“Where did you find it, Miss Ada?” she asked; 
and I could see that she was ill at ease. 

“ In the east parlor, close by the window. What 
a dandy, whoever he is, to wear that color !” 

“ Who, miss?” she asked, turning to place my hat 
on the table. 

“ That man who came here. For of course some- 
body came, you know : the glove didn’t come of it- 
self.” 

“ Now I think of it,” said Martha, in her strong, 
clear voice, “ there was a gentleman came on horse- 
back ; but he didn’t come in, at least in this part of 
the house. Curious about the glove,” she added. 
“ Perhaps it’s Mrs. Davis’s.” 

“ You know Mrs. Davis’s hands are as small as 
yours, Martha ; she rather prides herself on her 
hands,” I said, studying the dark, delicate outlines 
of Martha’s face, as it was turned profile towards 
me. 

“ Shall I take care of it?” she asked. It seemed to 


FINDING THE GLOVE. 


65 


me there was a sort of suppressed eagerness in her 
voice. Cousin Philip’s questions occurred to me ; 
and, for the first time, I distrusted mj incomparable 
maid. 

‘‘No, thank you ; I’ll put it in my pocket for the 
present,” I said, and went down stairs. 

Papa, as usual of late, did not come in to tea. 

“Did you carry him something?” I asked of 
Bridget, who waited upon table that night ; for I 
noticed that Mrs. Davis set some buttered toast aside 
and poured an extra cup of cocoa, which Bridget took 
from the room. 

“ Me, miss !” exclaimed Bridget, in an injured 
tone ; “I never go nighst the master, miss. I’m not 
young, neither handsome.” 

“ Then who did ?” I asked, rising from the table, 
' while Mrs, Davis turned red and fidgeted with the 
tea-tray. A sort of suppressed eagerness marked 
Bridget’s manner, as she answered, — 

“ It’s your own maid. Miss Lina, as carried him in 
his supper, and as always do do them sort o’ things.” 

A great silence fell upon us. I looked at Cousin 
Philip with unfeigned astonishment, and he raised 
his eyebrows as his glance encountered mine. 

“ I don’t quite understand it yet,” I said, as, with 
my cousin, I left the room. “ I never presume to 
enter my father’s presence, unless I am summoned ; 
and this girl carries his meals to him. Does he un- 
derstand what her position is here, I wonder ?” 

Just then Martha Voles came down to tea, called 
by the servants’ bell. I was fiushed, nervous, and 
S 


66 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


angry, hardly able, in fact, to restrain my tears. It 
was very hard to feel that my maid was preferred be- 
fore me. 

“ Martha,” I said, detaining her, ‘‘ 1 understand 
you sometimes carry my father his meals when he is 
indisposed.” 

‘‘ I do, sometimes. Miss Ada,” she replied, quietly ; 
but* her forehead colored. 

‘‘ How came you ever to think of such a thing ?” 
I made angry question. 

“ Mrs. Davis wished me to at first, to relieve her 
and she looked so innocent and sweet standing there, 
wdth the hall light brightening her wonderful, dark 
face. 

If it displeases you, I will stop ; you have only 
to forbid it,” she said again. Strange that I felt my 
heart go out to her, even in the height of my indig- 
nation. 

‘‘ I will speak with you about it some other time,’* 
I said, a little ashamed of my own haste and suspi- 
cion. 

“ Now, Cousin Philip, what am I to do ?” I asked, 
as I seated myself beside him at the moon-lighted 
window. 

‘‘I’d like to know how long this thing has been go- 
ing on.” The question was spoken more to himself 
than to me. “ She is quite pretty — and capable, no 
doubt.” 

“ What are you thinking of?” I asked. 

“ How long did you say she had been here ?” was 
his question, after a little pause of silence. 


FINDING THE GLOVE, 


67 


“ Very nearly a year.” 

“ And you have accorded her unusual privileges ?” 

Why, yes ; I could hardly help it. She seems so 
much superior to her position, and is always so gentle 
and ladylike.” 

‘‘ She does not eat with the servants ?” 

“ Only with Sally, the upper housemaid, and Mr. 
Drinkleigh. Bridget always waits upon them.” 

Bridget is worth them all,” he said. 

‘‘Yes, in sterling honesty. Bridget is a good crea- 
ture, and I love her dearly. But, Cousin Philip, you 
have not yet told me what to do.” 

“ It is wisest not to precipitate matters with people 
of that calibre,” he made reply. “ She is either a can- 
did, innocent woman, that Martha Voles, or a deep, 
designing character, whose plans are carefully laid 
and whose designs are mapped out with faultless ac- 
curacy. In the latter event, she could easily outwit 
you, my poor little cousin ; for you are candor itself, 
and have no weapons with which to fight deception, 
ignorance, and cunning. Your father is a very rich 
man,” he added, after a long pause. 

“ O Cousin Philip,” I cried, trembling, “ why do 
you speak of him ? It can’t be possible ! the very 
thought agonizes me. O Cousin Philip !” and my 
head fell on his shoulder, while tears ran down my 
cheeks like rain. 

“ Hush, hush, child,” he said, tenderly, passing his 
arm about me. “ It was of her I was thinking, more 
than of him. Your father, changed as he is, would 
not voluntarily cherish any feelings that would do 


68 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


your own angel mother injustice ; but he is, to all in- 
tents and purposes, a recluse. In fact, I go further, 
and treat his isolation as a mild case of insanity. He 
has grown to hate mankind and detest society. 5irou 
have hitherto given way to all his whims ; indeed, you 
were but a little child at this commencement of his 
dull, brooding life. Unfortunately, he could not lean 
upon you, and you could not counteract his tendency 
to melancholy. At last you have drifted apart.” 

‘‘ Oh, it is too true !” I sobbed. “ My own dear 
father is as a stranger to me ; and how could I help 
it? But I will !” and I started up. “ I will be his 
servant, if he will let me. I w^ould gladly fetch and 
carry for him, I pity him so. And yet I tremble 
whenever I go near him,” I added, piteously. He 
don’t, he can’t, love me.” 

Yes, dear, he loves you,” said Cousin Philip ; 

but trouble acts strangely upon some natures. He 
has never recovered the shock of your mother’s death. 
But let us not talk about it any longer. To-night I 
will think the matter over, and give you the benefit 
of my cogitations to-morrow. Let me have some old- 
fashioned music — ‘ Bonnie Dundee,’ for instance.” 

I went to the piano, and played for him every sim- 
ple Scotch air I could think of, though my mind was 
perplexed and my thoughts were busy with my father 
and Martha Voles. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE housekeeper’s VISITOR. 

HE notes of the music still rang out, while Cousin 



1 Philip, who had risen from the tete-d-tete^ was 
making the rounds of the room, looking at the few 
but very rare pictures that hung upon the walls. Sud- 
denly he paused behind me, and began to talk in a 
sort of ecstasy. 

Art, poetry, and music are so many diverting agen- 
cies to control the heart and soul of man, — so many 
outlets to his impassioned nature, — so many streams 
to the overflowing fountain of his joy. They ex- 
press, in design, imagery, and symphony, the three 
great characteristics of our common nature — our innate 
3^eaniing to imitate, our passion to give utterance to 
thoughts, and our love of harmonic sounds. 

Art, poetry, and music are the triune divinity of 
genius !” 

And the poor little things like me, Cousin Philip, 
who have no genius — ” I said, with a sigh that came 
near being a sob, for my heart was full. 

You mistake, my dear little cousin,” he said ; you 
have just the genius that shapes the destinies of the 
world for good — the genius of creating a paradise 
wherever you are. You look up at me with surprise 
— ^ah 1 you remind me so much of one I may never 
see again. You do not know what I mean, nor can I 


70 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


describe it fully. Suffice it to say, that you have the 
art of making friends, and, what is better still, the 
secret of keeping them. For instance,” he added, 
laughing, “ look at Blossom now.” 

I turned my head ; and there at my side sat the 
dog, an almost human love in his great brown eyes. 
It seemed to say, “ If I could only read your heart!” 

‘‘ Yes, Blossom does love me,” I said, the tears 
coming into my eyes ; and, being rash enough to re- 
spond with some slight caress, before I could prevent 
it, the two great silken paws were round my neck, 
and, in as delicate and gentlemanly a way as he knew 
how. Blossom was kissing me from eye to ear. 

Dear old faithful fellow I” I said ; but, bless 
me ! the dog even knows that I am a poor little stupid, 
that I haven’t even the genius to control him.” 

‘‘You have the genius of making home and com- 
mon things attractive,” said Cousin Philip. “ Now, 
there is Miss Langston, for instance ; she writes ad- 
mirable poetry and can keep an audience spellbound 
for hours, if so she will ; but I have it on the author- 
ity of a friend, that she holds a quiet life in abhor- 
rence, and does not like to take her curl-papers down 
till noon. Now, if I were a young man and were 
going to lay my life, my love, and my honor at the 
feet of a young girl, it would not certainly be such a 
one as Miss Langston, though she is decidedly beau- 
tiful and unmistakably a genius.” 

“ That may be so. Cousin Philip,” I said ; “ but prob- 
ably such a woman sees completeness in herself. She 
has a thousand resources, ten thousand friends and 


THE HOUSEKEEPERS VISITOR. 


71 


admirers. Perhaps she wouldn’t thank you or any 
man for falling in love with her.” 

“ Perhaps not,” was his reply ; “ and yet I under- 
stand Miss Langston, after her present engagement is 
finished, will marry. Her fiance is enormously rich 
and ridiculously old, for her.” 

I was just passively listening now, touching a chord 
here and there, and straining my senses to hear an- 
other voice, w’hose plaintive cadence came through a 
window on my right, that communicated with the hall 
leading to the housekeeper’s apartments. It was as 
one pleading for his life, and was answered by the 
sharp, wrathful tones of Mrs. Davis. 

“ I must see what it means,” I said, and hurried 
out of the room. Martha Voles, half way down the 
stairs, a strained, strange expression in her face, 
turned at sight of me, and went rapidly up-stairs 
again. I hurried to the housekeeper’s room, conscious 
of a scarcely suppressed wonder if my maid had been 
listening. 

Opening the door that shut the front hall from the 
back, I came upon a tableau that startled as well as 
pained, me. Backing away from Mrs. Davis, who 
stood on the threshold of her own living-room, pale 
with anger, was a man, or rather a man-shadow ; for 
he seemed to be in the last stages of consumption, and 
the glare of his unnaturally large, hollow, burning eyes 
frightened and grieved me when he turned them upon 
me with a scared, pained expression. 

Mrs. Davis, short, florid, flashing, seemed trying to 
control her rage ; but her voice sounded choked and 


72 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


unnatural. At sight of me, the pallor gave way to a 
quick flush, and, for an instant, her eyes seemed to 
shoot vindictive lightning. As I came upon them, 
the man was holding out his thin arms like a suppli- 
cant, and the agonized expression of his face was 
something terrible to see ; but his arms had fallen 
against his side, and his hollow chest rose and fell 
with heavy panting. 

“ What does this mean, Mrs. Davis ? Does the poor 
man want something to eat? Take him into the 
kitchen.’’ 

‘‘ O he’s no tramp, miss,” said Mrs. Davis, with a 
threatening side glance at the man ; it’s one who 
hasn’t his proper senses, and there’s no knowing what 
mischief’ll be done if he stays round here.” 

‘‘ I’m not mad, miss,” said the man, his hollow 
cheeks sucking in with every word. ‘‘ It’s only that 
I want to do justice before I die.” 

“ You talk of justice !” said Mrs. Davis, with a 
short, sharp laugh that set her cap-ribbons in motion, 
and stepping forward with a half leap, at which the 
man-shadow recoiled in evident fear of bodily harm. 
‘‘ You’d better be gone, or I’ll complain to the master 
and have you put where you won’t get out very soon ; 
not so soon as you did before,” she added, with a sig- 
nificant nod. 

The man-shadow turned his shining eyes from her 
to me, opened his thin lips ; then, his whole figure 
drooping like one who had received a mortal blow, he 
turned, in a spiritless way, and walked slowly toward 
the door. 


THE HOUSEKEEPER'S VISITOR. 


73 


“ I’ll see that this thing doesn’t happen again,” said 
Mrs. Davis, sharply, though there was an obvious re- 
lief made evident by the change in her voice and man- 
ner ; “ for I shan’t let you off so lightly next time, be 
sure. These travelling impostors take such unac- 
countable notions,” she added, as the thin figure passed 
on, and she turned to regain her room. 

‘‘ It seems to be somebody you know,” I said ; for 
the wretched man had appealed strongly to my sym- 
pathy, so apparently suffering, so helpless. 

‘‘ O yes, he’s been here afore, and I’ve helped him 
agen and agen ; and he’s lied, and deceived me. It’s 
alwaj^s so, — do good to some folks and they’ll turn 
and rend you. Sure, you could see the man is de- 
mented and ought to be shut up. I don't want to be 
murdered in my bed.” 

“ Horrible !” I shuddered ; “ but that poor man 
hasn’t got strength enough to make an attempt on 
anybody’s life.” 

Don’t you believe that,” she retorted, quickly. 
When a man is out of his senses you can’t trust him, 
sick or well. Now, if I hadn’t held that fellow with 
my eye, there’s no knowing what he might have done. 
I’ve had experience with that sort. Lucky Martha 
wasn’t here,” she added, and then bit her thick, round 
under lip. Evidentl}^ she had spoken without thought ; 
and she gave signs of confusion, which, quick as. I 
generally am, I could not help seeing. 

‘‘You don’t mean Martha Voles,” I said, my sus- 
pioions roused. “ What had she to do with him ?” 

“ Nothing, of course,” said Mrs. Davis, hastening to 


74 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


correct the impression she saw she had made ; only 
she is that soft and sympathetic. I make no doubt 
she’d have fainted awa}^ to hear me go on as I did. 
She’s very tender in the nerves, is Martha.” 

Indeed !” was my reply, “ I have never found her 
so. On the contrary, I think self-possession is one of 
her greatest characteristics. I have often wished I 
had half her nerve.” 

Well, pr’aps you’re right and I’m wrong,” said 
Mrs. Davis ; “ of course I don’t know her as well as 
you do, not seeing her so often.” 

Mrs. Davis,” I said, for I thought now was my 
time to speak, I don’t like to have Martha sent on 
errands to my father, particularly to take in his food 
when he stays in his office. You know there is no 
need of that ; there are plenty of other servants.” 

“ Surely,” said Mrs. Davis; but she went from red 
to white in a way that was not only unpleasant to see, 
but to me, who knew her moods, suggested the idea 
that she was both uneasy and conscience stricken. It 
was very strange ; and, the more I pondered upon it, 
the more I was puzzled. Mrs. Davis and Martha had 
met as strangers ; and yet I could not forbear the im- 
pression, that, in a very brief time, they had beeome 
affiliated and more like old friends than acquaintances. 
Moreover, I had often puzzled over chance likenesses 
and expressions and ways of speech, which I always 
tried to persuade myself were due alone to my im- 
agination ; for Mrs. Davis had but little comeliness, 
and that of the rustic kind, while Martha Voles, as 
Cousin Philip said, could certainly lay claim to supe- 
rior beauty. 


THE HOUSEKEEPER'S VISITOR. 


7 ? 


“ But then, I don’t see the harm in it,” she added, 
with an attempt to smile graciously, to appear more 
at her ease. Martha’s always so willing, and isn’t 
so silly as to think, like some, that such things is be- 
neath ’em. However, it’s as you say, of course ; you 
are the mistress.” Something in the cadence of her 
voice, in the expression of her countenance, stung me. 

Certainly I am the mistress,” I said, “ and I wish 
you to see to it that my wishes are not disregarded 
and I swept away ; holding my head as high as possi- 
ble, while she slammed the door behind her. When 
I reached the parlor. Cousin Philip sat on the sofa in 
a brown-study, and Blossom couched beside him with 
his nose buried in the fleece of the great rug* 


CHAPTER XII. 


AN INTERVIEW WITH MY FATHER. 

HE next morning, when I was in the conserva* 



1 tory, talking to Patrick about some of my 
choice plants which were drooping, my father sent 
for me to come to his study. Surprised at the mes- 
sage, — for hitherto I had always sought him, — I drew 
off my gardening-gloves, laid down my shears, and, 
after making some slight change in my attire, I went, 
not a little anxiously, to meet him. Had Mrs. Davis 
taken the opportunity of seeing him, and had she 
dared to make use of my name or interfere with my 
privileges ? 

I found my father just entering his ofSce, and fol- 
lowed him. He greeted me as usual, scarcely look- 
ing at me; bat I fancied there was a little degree of 
cordiality in his voice, though there was none of that 
warmth in his manner due to his close relationship. 

‘‘ I was thinking,” he said, as I sat down opposite 
him, “ that your sixteenth birthday is close at hand.” 

‘‘ Yes, sir,” I said, “ it wants but three months of 
the time and my heart grew full and warm at the 
thought that he had remembered it. 

“ We must not let the day pass unacknowledged,” 
he went on, lifting and letting fall, from time to time, 
a small ivory ruler. “ There ought to be an enter- 
tainment,- — I don’t like the idea of a ball, — and given 


AN INTER VIE W WITH MT FA THER. 77 

in good st3de. There must be a band from the city, 
and Gerard shall supply the tables. I wish to spare 
no expense. Whatever you need in the way of up- 
holstery, I would like you to order, and — oh ! how 
about dresses ? You will want something new and 
fashionable. Consult your own taste, and just fill 
out this blank — no ; on second thought, I will do that 
myself ; you are generally quite too modest in your 
desires.” * 

I sat there, spellbound and grateful, looking at him. 
lie was very pale ; but that something noble in his ex- 
pressive face, that had always fascinated me, gave him 
a dignity above all other men. There were dark cir- 
cles under his ej^es ; and I fancied he still retained the 
look of suffering I had se^n at my mother’s funeral. 

My dear, dear father ! How m^^ heart went out 
towards him ! Could he not see it ? If only there 
had been the least token of affection in his manner, 
any indication that my love was something more to 
him than the gratification of my wishes, I could have 
leaped to his side, and given him kiss after kiss, and 
held him close as I longed to be held ; but his man- 
ner was so cold, so calm, it frightened back all my 
warmer impulses. He sighed frequently and heavily, 
and every few moments looked abstractedly into the 
empty air or at the opposite wall, quite ignoring me. 
I felt that I could not, dare not, try to conquer his 
mood. As I took the check, which he had more than 
generously, lavishly, filled, I did think, for one little 
moment, of appealing to his fatherly instincts ; but 
just then the door opened, and somebody came in. 


78 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


I was standing opposite the table and my father, and 
I did not turn ; for it seemed as if the heavy eyes be- 
fore me lightened and my father’s brow grew clearer. 

“ My daughter, this is the new agent, Mr. Clewes ; 
Mr. Clewes, my daughter. Miss Ada Stewart.” 

I had moved by this time, and was aware of a pair 
of dark, searching, magnetic eyes, belonging to a man 
of majestic figure and bearing. It was the same per- 
son I had seen on hai*seback in the twilight of the 
day before. He bowed with a graceful inclination, 
his eyes fastened to my face, while I felt the color 
burning deeper on my cheeks. The contrast was 
certainly very great between the squatty figure and 
burly, hardened face of Mr. Drinkleigh and this re- 
fined-looking, handsome man. 

‘‘You are to take orders from my little girl, Mr. 
Clewes, exactly as you would from myself,” said my 
father, a shade more of color in his voice. “ She has 
a wise head, young as she is, and, when I am indis- 
posed, attends to the business as well as I could my- 
self. She has often been my right hand ;” and here 
he gave me a smile that I certainly must have re- 
turned with a kiss, if we had been alone. As it was, 
I bowed with all the dignity I could command, and 
slowly left the place, haunted by the eyes of my fath- 
er’s new agent. 

I went directly to my room, which Martha was pa- 
tiently setting to rights. The girl looked up as I en- 
tered, opened her lips as if about to speak, then, ap- 
parently changing her mind, rolled my easy-chair to 
my favorite place by the window. I had always 


AN INTER VIE W WITH MT FA TIIER. 79 

been so alone since my mother’s death, that, when 
Martha came, I grew childishly garrulous. I had 
readily gone to her with all my little plans, talked 
over my every-day duties ; and she had chatted, in 
the same familiar way, of her past life, the schools 
she had been to, the people she had known. 

These relations of almost affectionate familiarity 
had never been disturbed until the incidents occurred 
which had made the preceding day almost painful to 
look back upon. I had, however, partially forgotten 
my brief season of anger ; and it was not in me to sit 
for any time with a human being within sight and not 
talk. 

“ You have seen the new agent, I suppose,” I said, 
as I took up my lacework and sat down to the win- 
dow. ‘‘ By the way, that must have been his glove,” 
I exclaimed, suddenl}^ remembering the episode of 
yesterday. ‘‘ How in the world did it find its way in 
the parlor ? I am quite sure papa would not have 
taken him there.” 

“ Somebody let him in perhaps,” said Martha, 
calmly, “ until Mr. Stewart could be informed of his 
coming.” 

“ Yes, that must be it ; but what a fop to wear such 
gloves !” and my cheeks grew hot at the thought that 
the glove was in my pocket. 

‘‘I’m sure a fop will be better than the other mis- 
erable man,” said Martha, with a furtive glance at 
me. “ Did you see him this morning ?” 

“ Yes,” I answered, not without a curious look at 
her ; for there was that in her voice which quite 


So 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


roused me from my own reflections. He certainly 
is a much better looking man than Drinkleigh.’’ 

Isn’t he rather handsome ?” asked Martha. 

Yes, fine looking, I should say,” was my cautious 
reply ; and then I lapsed into thought that was verg- 
ing on the romantic, and was wakened to conscious- 
ness only when my lace-frame falling to the floor I 
found myself being narrowly watched by my incom- 
parable maid, upon whose . lips sat the faintest myth 
of a smile. 

‘‘ It is so hard to think up things when one is going 
to give a party,” I said. 

‘‘ Are you going to give a party ?” she asked, her 
manner suddenly changing. 

‘‘ Yes, something of the kind. Papa objects to call- 
ing it a ball, and I’m afraid there won’t be any danc- 
ing. I half dread it, there will be so much to do. I 
think I will have printed notes ; it will be easier, and 
the}’ can be finished in dead gold, with a bit of blue 
flower, a forget-me-not, in the corner.” 

‘‘ It’s just delightful ?” said Martha, with increas- 
ing animation. “ What with the invitations and or- 
dering things, and the excitement of preparation, — 
and then you will have a new dress of course.” 

I suppose so,” I said. 

“Suppose so! Why, of course you must; you 
haven’t a real party dress in the world calculated to 
do service for such an occasion. I know, or fancy I 
know, just what will suit your style, — lavender silk 
and satin, and rich lace for trimming, with rosebuds 
scattered among loops and folds.’' 


AN INTER VIE W WITH MT FA THER. 


8l 


‘‘Lavender? oli, no; that’s too old for me. It 
would suit your style, not mine,” I said. 

“Why, I’m not so very much older than you,” she 
said, in a slightly aggressive tone ; and her cheeks 
flamed up. 

“ Well, then you look older than you are,” I said, 
bluntly. “ Cousin Philip says you look twenty-eight.” 

She was silent for a moment, and bit her lip hard. 

“ Your Cousin Philip dislikes me. I knew it from 
the moment I first set eyes on him. And, besides, I 
saw him smile one day when Blossom growled at me, 
as if he was delighted. I don’t think I shall try to 
convince him about my age. He is old enough at all 
events.” 

“ He’s splendid, old or young,” I said ; “ and he is 
not yet forty : I’m sure that’s not very old for a man;” 
and I should have added something harsh had I not 
at that moment perceived the rector turning into the 
avenue that led to the house, and guiding his strong 
black horse like a soldier, for he rode superbly. 

I had become accustomed to the good rector’s visits 
during my mother’s last sickness ; but, since my re- 
turn from boarding-school, he had not often made his 
appearance at our house. My father had once or 
twice given him the cold shoulder, and I felt a little 
in awe of him, so that he was never made very com- 
fortable at Hollyhoxy. Breaking in this morning 
upon our rose-colored anticipations of feast and fun, 
he certainly was not a welcome sight to me ; and I 
rose very slowly to go down-stairs, for there was no 
one else to receive him. 

6 


82 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


‘‘Why don’t you send down ‘Not at home,’ as 
others do ?” asked Martha. 

“Because I will not lie,” I retorted, briefly. 

“ Well, you needn’t lie, as you call it,” she said, 
while I tock off my work apron ; “ you are simply not 
at home to himr 

“ I don’t see the difference,” I said, “ unless I send 
word expressly that I am not at home to my callers. 
That would be ridiculous as well as unkind; and I 
wouldn’t hurt Doctor Henry’s feelings for the world.” 

So saying, I went down-stairs, and found the rector 
in the hall, hat in hand. 

“ How do you do. Miss Ada ? fine day. Have been 
riding twenty miles or more.” 

“Then, pray sit down,” I said; “you must be 
tired.” 

“A little — but then — ^you heard of the explosion?” 

“ No, indeed ! What was it ?” 

“A boiler burst in Joyce’s Camphene Works. 
Twenty men killed and wounded, and most of them 
belong here. I assure you. Miss Ada, I have seen 
some suffering this morning.” 

Always the shadow of sorrow ! Why had he come 
to me, on this day of all others, to fill my mind with 
visions of anguish ? And yet, as he talked the tears 
rolled down my cheeks when he painted the wild 
lamentations of mothers and wives as they received 
their dead, of dear little children calling the uncon- 
scious father ; the utter despair of some, the pressing 
wants, the poverty, of all. I thought of my check, 
and ran up-stairs to get it. 


AN INTER VIE W WITH MT FA THER, 83 


“ Mercy on me !” cried Martha, turning pale, “ what 
is the matter ?” 

“ An accident, and ever so many poor working-men 
killed,” I said, as I took the check out of my drawer. 

“ Well, they might as well die,” said Martha, after 
a pause. “ The poor wretches had no comfort in 
life ; maybe they’ll find it in death.” 

“ Martha, your heart must be hard,” I said, chok- 
ingly. Just as if they didn’t think of their wives 
<and their little children and their homes quite as 
iondly as the rich !” 

‘‘ No, they don’t,” said Martha, almost harshly. 

I’ve been there ! I mean I have seen them, and 
know how they live and suffer.” 

I left the room, and flew down-stairs. 

Take this,” I said, “ and do all the good you can. 
I was going to buy a new dress with it — to dance in 
and be gay ; but those poor souls, oh ! it will help 
“them bury their dead.” 

‘‘ But this is too much. Miss Ada ; you will deny 
j'ourself beyond measure if I take it. Your father — ” 

“ My father has nothing to say about it,” I cried, 
^eagerly ; the money is all mine. I can get more for 
“the asking ; and, as for the new dress, what do I care 
for a new dress when he scarcely knows me in the 
•old ?” and the tears came for a moment fast and thick. 
‘‘ No, Doctor Henry, take it all. I couldn’t enjoy 
myself a moment if I spent that money now. I only 
wish it were more. I will try to give more some 
'Other time.” 

“ Ah 1 child of luxury,”’ he said, sweetly, taking 


84 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


my two hands, ‘‘you will know after this what trm 
luxury means. You are your mother’s own daughter, 
God bless you !” and, gently bowing above my hands, 
he went away, leaving me heavy hearted, and yet, in 
a strange way, happy. For, if Doctor Henry had 
gone through the whole vocabulary of commendatory 
sentences, he could not have found one so incompara- 
bly precious as that — 

“ You are your mother's own daughter/’ 


CHAPTER XIII. 


GOING TO SEE COUSIN PHILIP. 

I WENT slowly up-stairs, drying my eyes. 

‘‘ You didn’t give it all to him — you couldn’t I” 
said Martha, turning white. 

“ I did, every cent of it, and there’s none too much. 
It will only last long enough to bury the poor fel- 
lows.” 

“ Five hundred dollars !” repeated Martha, slowly. 
How long one has to work for five hundred dollars,” 
she added, her voice lingering along the words. 

“ How much you must love money, Martha,” I said, 
looking up in some surprise. 

“ Ah ! but think of working two and three years 
for five hundred dollars, and having then to dole it 
out so grudgingly. You have never known the want 
of money.” 

‘‘ One would think you hadn’t to see your clothes,” I 
said, unkindl}^ 

‘‘ My clothes — oh ! it’s the first time you ever spoke 
so. Yes, I will dress,” she added, almost passion- 
ately. “ I’ve toiled and slaved, you would never 
dream how hard, to get my nice clothes, even to al- 
most starving myself. I bought silk and velvet, bit 
by bit, and hoarded it as a miser would his gold. I 
began when I was a little child ; it was the ambition 
of my life ; and oh ! how I have envied those poor 


86 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


rich fools, who know nothing but how to dress, and 
could spend their money lavishly, while I must stint 
and save and suffer” — she paused a moment, breathing 
hard — ‘‘ yes, I believe I would almost sell my soul to 
be rich.” 

‘‘Martha, such feelings will end in making you 
wicked,” I said, with unreasoning solemnity. 

“ I never made any pretence of being very good,” 
she said, her cheeks and forehead red, and plying her 
needle more rapidly. “ I can do my duty though, and 
I try to be contented. But, pray, what are you going 
to do about your dress, to change the subject ? It’s 
a sort of coming-out, and you ought to do justice to 
the occasion. Will your father give you another five 
hundred dollars ?” 

“ I suppose so, if I ask him,” I said. 

“ Of course you will.” 

“ No, indeed !” 

“What!” 

“ No, indeed and then I added, breaking through 
my usual reticence on that subject, for I had seldom 
spoken of my father in her presence, “ If my father 
loved me as men ordinarily love their children, I would 
not mind telling him what I have done.” The instant 
I had spoken, a sharp regret assailed me. What did 
that quick gleam, that rippled all over her face like a 
a triumph, mean ? I was startled into silence. 

“What, doesn’t your father love you?” she asked. 
“ I didn’t think that ; I thought he was one of those 
silent men, who make no display, but love the more 
deeply on that account. You astonish me I” 


GOING TO SEE COUSIN PHILIP, 87 

“ I don’t know that it is any thing to you, eithei 
way,” I said, for I felt heated and angry. 

“ No, of course not,” she responded, in perfect good 
temper.^ You must excuse me; but really it seems 
so odd that a father shouldn’t love his child — his only 
one.” 

“ My father does love me,” I retorted. 

Oh, excuse me ; I thought you said he did not.” 

‘‘ Well, we often say things on the impulse of the 
moment that we don’t just mean.” 

‘‘ Indeed ! I thought you never did ; you are so se- 
riously particular.” 

I gave a great sigh, and held my lips hard. I 
wanted to quarrel, to cry, to fall on some sympathetic 
breast and get comfort. Whom had I to go to ? No- 
body. Oh ! how my heart went out to that lonely 
tomb, where I had last seen that silent, upturned 
face. My heart cried, ‘‘ Mother I” a hundred times a 
day. It looked no higher as yet. It had not learned 
the way up the ladder of prayer. Cloud and thick 
darkness surrounded me. My only and most inti- 
mate companion was a woman who would almost sell 
her soul for money; and Mrs. Davis disliked and 
avoided me. Thus, in that great house there were no 
hearts and no altars upon which I could repose. I 
was as utterly alone as if in the solitude of the woods. 

How longingly I looked forward to Cousin Philip’s 
coming ! When it was past his usual hour, I could 
not wait. Calling Blossom, I wrapped myself up, and 
sallied out to the little tavern where he had taken up his 
quarters. The house had been built by an eccentric 


88 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


individual named ‘‘ Uncle Shaddock.” It was said he 
had once been the possessor of an immense fortune, 
which he had run through ; and, when he came to his 
last five hundred, he suddenly changed his career, cut 
all his boon companions, went into the country and on 
a turnpike road, built him a house, married a woman 
famous for her cooking, and kept a tavern for way- 
farers, teamsters, and country merchants. The house 
was painted rfed, with white trimmings ; and it cer- 
tainly did present a queer appearance as one came 
upon it from a by-road, standing there a red waymark, 
its windows all furnished with thick white curtains, 
its porch all covered with creepers, summer and win- 
ter. Uncle Shaddock seemed very happy. He was a 
man of great natural capabilities, past fifty, with a 
bald head, sandy eyebrows, blue eyes, a square nose 
and chin, and a sunny smile that did one good to see. 
On Sundays he always played the flute ; and the 
passer-by was regaled with old ‘‘China” and other 
solemn melodies. 

As I came in sight of the honse, a horse stood be- 
fore the door, saddled ; Uncle Shaddock’s nonde- 
script dog was running furiously under and between 
the horse’s feet, barking with all his might; and, in- 
side, could be heard the cheerful laugh of mine host. 

“ Dear heart, he’s had headache,” said the equally 
sunny hostess, as her broad frame came in sight ; and 
she pointed upwards with the great wooden spoon in 
her right hand to indicate that she meant my cousin. 

Blossom preceded me up the white, broad stairs ; 
and Cousin Philip, looking somewhat pale, let me in. 


GOING TO SEE COUSIN PHILIP. 


89 


very glad to see me, he said. His room was large, 
square, low ceiled and sunny, a real treasure of a 
room to comfort-seekers ; and his bed occupied a large 
niche made by takiug down the partition of a smaller 
room. 

Will my readers credit me that I felt far happier 
there, looking out upon the winding road, the hedges, 
the hills, and basking in the sunshine, than at Holly- 
hoxy, with its wealth of upholstery and its general 
splendor ? 

Cousin Philip was just getting over one of his royal 
headaches, he said, as he gave me his great calico- 
covered rocking-chair. He had heard about the ac- 
cident, and given something for the aid of the suffer- 
ers. When I told him what I had done, he grew very 
thoughtful. 

“ My little girl must learn to use her judgment,” 
he said, softly. 

“ But if I had thought of it a year. Cousin Philip,” 
I said, “ I should have given it all.” 

‘‘ And the dress ?” 

“ I must go without it.” 

“ Indeed, that you shall not do ; I will see to the 
dress. You shall have your money back.” 

‘‘Not a cent,” I said, firmly. 

“ Not a new dress from me ?” 

“ No ; not a new dress from you even. It would 
make me feel as if I hadn’t given any thing.” 

“ But what shall you do, my dear ?” 

“ Fix up something, I don’t care what ; I am too 
young for much dress. O Cousin Philip !” An idea 


4 


,90 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

had seized me with such force that it drove the blood 
into my cheeks and forehead. 

“ Well, what isdt now he asked. 

‘‘ You saw mamma when she was married?” 

“Yes, my child ; and she looked as lovely as an 
angel,” he answered, 

“ I have that dress : would it be sacrilege to wear 
it ? to have it made over for me ? It is just the love- 
liest white mull, with silver threads woven in.” 

“ I confess I should like to see you in it,” said 
Cousin Phil, with a sigh and a smile. “ It is more 
beautiful than any thing you can get here ; for it was 
made to order abroad.” 

“ And papa, do you think he will mind ? Do you 
think he remembers ? will it be any pain to him ?” 

“ A wholesome pain, perhaps,” said Cousin Phil. 

You are growing very like your mother.” 

“ O Cousin Phil, do you see it ?” I cried, running 
to the mirror. “ I almost pray, every day, that I may 
grow like her ; but I am large, and she was so dainty 
and tiny. My eyes are like hers though, are they not ? 
and my hair, a little ?” 

“ I believe I will see you home,” said Cousin Philip, ' 
rising and going to the window, a sorrowful look in 
his face. Did I also remind him of one from whom 
he was forever separated ? It made me both glad and 
sorry to think it might be so. But I soon forgot every 
thing else in the pleasure I felt in making over the 
beautiful stuff that had been my mother’s wedding- 
dress. Even Martha confessed that it was something 
finer and more costly than I could have bought in the 
city. 


GOING TO SEE COUSIN PHILIP, 


91 


“ But are you not afraid of it ?” she asked. 

“ Afraid of it !” was my astonished exclamation. 

“ Yes, that it will bring you ill luck. I couldn’t 
be hired to wear the dress, or a shred of it, that has 
been worn by the dead.” 

But it wasn’t worn by the dead, but the living,” 
I said, despising her silly superstition. 

‘‘ All right ; it’s not my wearing,” she said care- 
lessly. 

‘‘ No, I guess it isn’t : you never saw my mother,” 
I thought, as I pressed a bit of the material to my 
lips. As if any thing she had worn could bring harm 
to me! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MY FIRST PARTY. 


ITH the enthusiasm of a child, I counted the 



vv days as they passed. My father had sent for 
decorators from the city ; and they took the first spa- 
cious floor into their own hands, draping, illuminat- 
ing, ornamenting, till it seemed a veritable bower of 
beauty. My dress was finished, and pronounced per- 
fect, both by the dressmaker I employed and by Mar- 
tha, only the latter said, — 

You will look too much like a bride.” 

In my secret heart, that was just what I wanted 
to look like — a bride. I wanted to see if my father 
would notice me, or be startled or pleased. I walked 
on air at the very thought that I might in the least 
attract or interest him. I meant to be the lady of the 
house, dignified as well as amiable. I knew he would 
wish me to sing, and practiced all my best pieces. 

“ If I had your voice,” Martha said to me one day, 
“ I would be the richest woman in America. But 
Heaven has denied me the things I most want, while 
you have every thing lavished on you, and don’t care.” 

‘‘ O yes, I do : I care for my voice, because it makes 
others happy.” 

“ And envious,” she muttered, in low tones. 

It seemed to me that the new agent came to me 
very often, though perhaps not oftener than he judged 


Mr FIRST PARTT. 


93 


absolutely necessary. Mr. Drinldeigh had, in a gen- 
eral way, used his own judgment ; and I gave Mr. 
Clewes to understand that he could do the same 
thing, but he did not seem to take the hint. He 
was so handsome, gentlemanly, and considerate, that 
it vexed me that Blossom would not make friends 
with him. The dog did not, as in Martha’s case, 
show mere tolerance ; he absolutely growled, looked 
dangerous, and showed his teeth, no matter how 
much I scolded. 

Never mind. Miss Stewart ; he’ll get used to me,” 
he said, at first; but Blossom tried his best not to 
verify his words — to the very last he snapped and 
growled, and played the beligerent. 

I had never given Mr. Clewes the glove, or sent it 
to him. I can hardly say why, except that I was 
a little bit provoked that I had made such a fuss over 
it ; so, enjoining silence on Martha, I threw it into a 
box full of odds and ends, and let it lie there. 

We often talked about the party, as the time drew 
near, and the invitations had all been answered favor- 
ably. We sometimes walked through the rooms, or 
lighted them at night, and fancied how it would look 
when the flowers were in their places and all was 
light and perfume. 

“You ought to be the happiest girl in the world,” 
Martha said, on the night of our last inspection ; “you 
have all you can possibly want or wish for.” 

“ That don’t make happiness,” I said, oracularly, 
not because I knew from experience particularly, but 
that I thought it the proper thing to say. 


94 


GRAND MO THER NORM AND r. 


“ To me, it would be supreme, transcendent ! But 
it is almost always so — ^those who have wealth don’t 
value it, while those who long for it are denied.” 

“ Take my place to-morrow night,” I said, laugh- 
ingly. I hate crowds ; introductions are simply 
abominable, and full dress almost insupportable for 
five or six tedious hours. I’d a great deal rather be 
out on the lawn with Blossom, in a loose and com- 
fortable frock, counting the Chinese lanterns. That 
would be enjoyment!” 

‘‘Yes, but would you like my place — out among 
the servants ? or, what is more likely, in the solitude 
of my own room ?” 

“ No need of either,” said a voice near us ; and 
there stood my father, who had overheard a part, pos- 
sibly all, of our conversation. Martha started and 
blushed ; I would have spoken, but my father turned 
and went out of the room. Martha, too, moved away 
shyly ; but I detected a smile on her thin, bright lips, 
that sickened me. In the course of an hour, I re- 
ceived the following note : — 

“ Dear Daughter Aha : — 

“ I wish you to invite Miss Martha Voles to the entertain- 
ment given to-morrow evening in your honor. Miss Voles is a 
young lady of superior training and attainments ; and I do not 
think it will reflect upon you to receive her aff a guest. This, at 
any rate, is my desire, as I wish to make everybody under my roof 
happy for once. Tour father^ 

“ F. Stewart.** 

I pondered long over this written command, for 
command I felt it to be. It did not, after all, seem 
so incongruous when I refiected, that Martha Voles 


MT FIRST PARTY. 


95 


was a lady in appearance, and to some extent char- 
acteristic ; but why should my father interest himself 
about her ? He had seen her so seldom, I thought, 
he surely could not know much as to her good or bad 
qualities. And I was obliged to invite her ! Could 
I do it with a good grace ? She was my maid ; yes, 
but she was also cultivated enough to be, in a sense, 
my companion. I was not so silly as to look down 
upon her simply because she took care of my room, 
my ribbons and laces : and yet the duty irritated me. 
With the best grace I could, I informed her that I 
should expect her to come down in full dress ; but 
she declined until some way she wormed it out of me, 
that my father wished it. Then she was all smiles 
and compliance, and, in that mood, exceedingly hate- 
ful to me. 

Cousin Philip was not only annoyed, but exasper- 
ated. 

“ I should certainly remonstrate with your father 
if he was in his sane mind,” he said ; ‘‘ but what can 
one do with a madman ?” 

“ You do not think my father is mad ?” I said. 

I do think him a madman, and not harmless, 
either, if he is capable of this freak. Let me ask 
you,” he continued, “if Miss Voles is intimate with 
Mr. Clewes, your father’s new agent.” 

“Not at all — at least, she professes not to be,” I 
replied ; — “ yes, I am sure of it ; they met in this 
room yesterday, and never spoke, never even looked 
at each other.” 

“ Then there is hoodwinking somewhere,” he said ; 


96 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


for I saw them talking together down by the arbor; 
— they did not see me ; — and I plainly heard him. ask 
her, laughing, if she had mended the lilac glove yet ; 
and she replied, also laughing, that you had taken it 
into custody, and she had not been able to get it out 
of your possession.” 

I looked at him in astonishment, and put both hands 
over my cheeks to cool their burning. 

“ Cousin Philip, did you hear that ?” I asked. 

I certainly did ; and they walked on, or I should 
have been obliged to hear more or reveal my vicinity.” 

‘‘That,” I cried, “is absolute and unqualified de- 
ception ! How shall I inform my father ? I will give 
the glove immediately to Martha Voles, and tell the 
agent how I came in possession of it. I will go right 
away.” 

“Stop, child,” said Cousin Philip, gravely; “you 
are too heated ; you are angry and trembling, and 
you have much before you to do. Leave the business 
in my hands ; you can trust me. You know I have 
perfect consideration for you, and will find out the 
best way to get at the matter. Let things go on 
as they were going ; you don’t want a scene and a 
break-up just now. See, there are some of your 
guests coming this early ; and you must attend to 
their comfort. Can you not leave it all in my 
hands ?” 

I was only too willing to trust him, to throw all 
this new burden upon him ; for indeed it required all 
my tact and strength to play the hostess on a larger 
scale than I had ever been called to do. Four or five 


MT FIRST PARTT, 


97 


of our visitors, relatives of my father, came to tea ; 
and rooms had to be assigned to them, and their com- 
fort looked after. Mrs. Davis was invaluable on such 
occasions ; and now she seemed unwontedly gracious, 
even my dear”-ing me, to my great disgust ; for I 
could not divest myself of the idea that she was long- 
ing to do me an injury. But, amidst all my cares, 
like a heavy black shadow, at my back and at my 
foot, came the feeling that I was in some measure 
being betrayed in the house of my friends. I had 
never felt that there was any thing very incisive or 
energetic in my character ; but it seemed as if a new 
strength gathered about me as I felt that some dan- 
ger was coming nearer and nearer, and that it would 
strike soon. 

The evening came on like a glory. Within and 
without were alike a scene of enchantment. The 
lawn was full of people who had come merely to see 
the illumination ; and the rooms were reasonably 
filled with beautiful and well-dressed women and a 
full complement of gentlemen. I was here, there, 
and everywhere after the introductions were all ac- 
complished ; and for a time the black shadow seemed 
to have vanished. I was made to feel, in many ways, 
that I was the queen of the fete — glad smiles and gay 
congratulations and bright laughter gratified all my 
highest aspirations. Fair, clear sparks of light came 
from scores of jets, glinting on creamy laces and ex- 
quisite toilets. Perfume filled the throbbing air : no 
hint of trouble or sorrow was there in all this lavish 
display. A sort of delirious joy came over me. Af- 

7 


98 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


ter all, wliat a glorious world it was ! And, as Mar- 
tha had said, there was power in money — power, de- 
light ! One could, at any time, with this golden 
wand, secure a happiness which was almost fabulous. 
Was this the “life beautiful”? By the way, I had 
not seen Martha yet. She had not dressed till after 
she had attended to me ; and I wondered, with a wo- 
man’s curiosity, what she had on. 

“ O Miss Stewart,” cried an old lady, a really beau- 
tiful old lady, with her white hair and quiet dress, 
“ your costume is quite exceptional. Allow me to 
compliment you. I have never seen any thing like it 
since I was at your mamma’s wedding ; and that was 
over thirty years ago.” 

“ You see mamma’s wedding-dress now,” I said. 

“ What ! is that possible ?” and she scrutinized it 
closely. “ I should have thought it would be past 
use by this time. What a lovely material ! Ah ! 
your poor papa ; how he has aged ! Keally, I don’t 
wonder his mourning has extended through these 
three last years.” 

“ I haven’t been able to catch a glimpse of papa all 
this evening,” I said. 

“ Ah, well, the crowd, you know, — one has to be 
here, there, and everywhere as host ; but he was here 
a moment ago, talking to a very pretty dark girl : I 
noticed her because her dress was very recherche^ and 
she had such beautifull}^ moulded arms. They went 
out of the room together, quite like lovers, I assure 
you.” 

I felt myself growing pale ; for, though my mam 


MT FIRST PARTY, 


99 


ma’s old friend gave her information with a merry 
little laugh, as though she only told it as a mere joke, 
an impression seized me that she had seen my father 
and Martha go out of the room together. Mechani- 
cally I made my way to an open window, and stood 
there under the pale moonlight, mingled with the 
more yellow reflection cast upon the atmosphere by 
the many illuminations. There were several couples 
walking about the grounds ; and the murmur of 
voices laughing and talking came in subdued sound 
to the place where I stood. 

Suddenly I saw them coming towards me, my father 
and Martha Voles, walking arm in arm. She was 
looking down and smiling, a train of light blue satin 
thrown over the unoccupied arm. How in the world 
had she managed to get a dress like that, I thought ; 
and why should my father allow himself to walk with 
my maid. I stood shivering, looking at them, my 
mind distracted, my brain heavy with wonder, when, 
as they neared me, my father suddenly looked towards 
me. With an exclamation, he dropped Martha’s arm, 
and gazed for a moment as if chained to the spot. 

My heart throbbed madly for one little moment. 
In me, my father saw the likeness of my mother as 
she had appeared on her bridal day. 

Quietly as I had come, I moved back, leaving him 
apparently transfixed,' and mingled with the crowd in- 
doors. Later on I sang, still later I attended the sup- 
per room with the rest ; but I walked, sang, tasted, 
like one in a dream. My shadow was not now at my 
side or my foot ; it had thrown its mystical folds all 


lOO 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


over me, enveloping me as in a shroud. Oh, how I 
longed for the night to be gone ! How I longed to 
he with Martha Voles face to face ! And, at last, 
when the soft light had melted out with the crowds, 
and one by one I took the hands of friends and 
strangers, with a smile on my lip and polite words on 
my tongue, more than one let my icy 'fingers fall, as 
if the touch chilled them. 

The last person I saw was Mrs. Davis, resplendent 
in a dress of blg^ck satin. She stood at the foot of the 
stairs, as if she had been waiting for me. 

‘‘How well you did it, my dear,” she exclaimed; 
“one would think you had been house-mistress for 
twenty years instead of two or three. It did make 
me think so much of my poor dead Mrs. Stewart.” 

I felt to the bottom of my heart, that her words 
and her manner were both hypocritical ; and, for the 
moment, I think I knew what the venom of hate was. 
I only looked at her, but did not answer, but ran rap- 
idly up-stairs, trembling all over. Martha Voles was 
there, in her usual black Cashmere, the. fiowers all 
taken out of her hair, and all vestige of her finery 
hidden. It seemed like a myth, the tableau I had 
seen — ^jewels, satin, lace, and her beautiful dark face 
mocking me through all. 

She came forward to assist me. 

“ Thank you,” I said, drawing myself proudly up ; 
“ I can do without your help to-night.” 

She only nodded her head, witli that exasperating 
smile on her thin, scarlet lips, and went back to the 
table at which I had found her. How I tore off my 


Mr FIRST PARTT. 


loi 


ornaments, to the destruction of almost every thing I 
touched, I never knew. I only know that I felt, now 
tremors of heat, now shivering cold, and that I trem- 
bled so that I could scarcely stand, and set my teeth 
hard against a disposition to faint. No, she should 
not see me that'weak ; I was not going to fall at her 
feet. Once or twice, my fury — for I can call it noth- 
ing else — was on the point of bursting out ; but I had 
promised Cousin Philip that I would leave it all to 
him, and what I might say would perhaps only give 
her fresh weapons against me. One thing I could do 
and would — dismiss her as soon as her month was up 
(that would be in a very few days), giving her an ex- 
tra month’s wages. To think of this, consoled me 
somewhat. 

Once more that night, when Martha had gone away, 
and I, ready for bed, heard the old familiar whine at 
my door (Blossom had been kept shut up during the 
evening), I crouched down at the fireplace, with my 
head in the dear old curly neck, and sobbed out my 
sorrow to Blossom. 

‘‘ O Blossom,” I said, ‘‘ the world is not a bit beau- 
tiful; and it don’t matter how much money you have, 
or how little care, things will go wrong, people won’t 
love you when you want them to, and you’re just as 
sick with the heartache as the poorest. O Blossom, 
you will never forsake me, will you?” 

And Blossom whined comfortably, the tip of his 
tail wagging as fast as it could, and his great, almost 
human, eyes fixed yearningly upon me. 


CHAPTER XV. 


A TIMELY INVITATION. 


T last the crisis came, as I knew it would. There 



Jr\. were days and weeks of suspense, during which 
Martha put up with my freaks and my had temper 
with unaccustomed patience. Mrs. Davis carried her 
head high, and would break out into mysterious smiles 
and nods and chuckles, my father was as reticent and 
distant as ever, Mr. Clewes as ofl&cious, and Cousin 
Philip as considerate, though he often appeared to be 
in a brown-study. 

One day he came in, and threw his hat down on 
the parlor table. I was filling a vase with hot-house 
roses, — the fresh, sweet smell comes to me now, as I 
think of that morning. I was somewhat surprised, 
as Cousin Philip was neatness itself, and had always 
before left his hat on the rack. The expression of 
his face, as I looked up, made me spill some buds, and 
they fell on the floor. He stooped, and picked them 
up ; and, in so doing, his hair came over his forehead. 
He looked that minute like a picture I had once seen 
of a man smitten with the palsy. 

I could not speak for a little while, and then, sum- 
moning up all my strength, I said, — 

‘‘ You might as well tell me. Cousin Philip.” 

‘‘ Yes, I have unpleasant news for you, my child.” 
Just then the postman came, bringing some letters for 


A TIMELY INVITATION, 


103 


me. I flung them down on the table, turned away, 
and folded my hands hard. 

There, I’ll try to bear it,” I said, half childishly, 
half with a woman’s strong feeling. 

‘‘ You will need all your fortitude,” was his reply. 
‘‘ Come and sit down.” I allowed him to lead me 
passively to the lounge ; and there, for one sickening 
half-hour, I sat and listened. 

How I spoke after that, how I lived, I can scarcely 
tell. I was so shocked that I remember I tried to 
think who I was and where I was. My lips were dry 
and parched ; I could hardly move my tongue. 

‘‘ And so my father will marry Martha Voles ! She 
will be mistress of this house — and he don’t know 
who she is — and she is my maid — and a hypocrite — 
and a false wretch ! and my father will marry her ! 
Oh !” I cried, lifting myself up, he will not so insult 
the memory of my mother ! I will go to him. On 
my knees I will beg and pray, that, for her pure sake, 
— for my sake — ” 

Cousin Philip caught my hands. 

‘‘ Indeed, you must not see him now,” he said. 
Listen to what concessions he has made. I laid the 
whole matter before him. It is unnecessary that I 
should enter into particulars. I pleaded as one who 
pleads for his life : I used every argument, even, that 
a skilled lawyer might employ ; and he so far relented 
as to say that he would not precipitate the marriage, 
though it mattered little to him that she was home- 
less, and — he chose so to call her servitude — a depend- 
ent. On a further conversation, he said he had busi- 


104 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


ness in Paris ; and thus it stands. He has promised 
me, for your sake, — and he is a man of honor, though 
assuredly not quite sane, — to defer the marriage till 
his return.” 

“ And how long will he be gone ?” I asked. 

“ Three or four months.” 

‘‘ And she — Martha — has been some time secretly 
engaged to him ?” 

“ Yes, so it seems.” 

“ And, O Cousin Philip ! ought I — must I stay here 
with her ? Never ! I’ll go and earn my bread first,” 
I cried, despairingly. 

‘‘ No, you certainly should not stay here ; the tor- 
ture would be too OTeat. But to whom can you ^o, 
my child ?” 

‘‘ Oh, somebody will take pity on me !” I said, 
wearily. My father virtually turns me out of doors 
— O Cousin Philip, how I hiite — the world ! every 
thing ! everybody !” I cried, passion choking my 
voice, my very breath. ‘‘ O Cousin Philip, she has 
known it this long time ! How she has deceived me ! 
She knew all along that she was to be one at my party 
— and that splendid blue satin — ” I choked here, 
and quite broke down, sobbing hysterically. Cousin 
Philip half led, half carried me away from the open 
window to the end of the room, where, through the 
glass windows of a small conservatory, myriads of 
sweet blossoms shone amidst dripping waters. 

It cut me to the very heart to feel that I had been 
made a tool of ; and suddenly flashed over me the 
meaning of Mrs Davis’s charged, almost insolent, man- 


A TIMELT INVITATION, 


105 


ner. She, then, hardest of all to think, — she knew of 
my father what his own child would not dare to im- 
agine. 

Having seated me so that I could have my cry with- 
out interruption, my cousin walked back and forth 
in silence. 

Presently he came towards me, a letter in his hand. 
His face was as pale as ashes. 

‘‘ Cummingford ! — whom do you know in Cumming- 
ford, my dear?” he asked, looking at me with his pen- 
etrating eyes, as if he would look me through. 

I don’t know anybody,” I half sobbed. 

“ You were not aware — you did not know that — 
your grandmother and your aunt lived in Cumming- 
ford — your mother’s mother and only sister ?” 

“ No, indeed !” I looked up now. ‘‘ No one ever 
told me where they lived. I supposed my grand- 
mother was dead. I never liked her, never cared for 
her; she was cruel to my darling mother.” 

“Very strange,” he murmured, and looked at the 
writing. It seemed as if he would devour it — held it 
back, drew” it near. After the first paroxysm was 
over, I, still almost too wretched to move, took the 
letter, inspected the envelope, and opened it. Then 
I read, with a little cry of astonishment, as follows : — 

“ Miss Adeline Stewart : — 

‘ For the first time in my life, I address one who, though a per- 
fect stranger, is very dear to me — my sister’s only child. Again and 
again I have tried to do this ; but, under the pressure of strict com- 
mands, I have forborne to do so. Now I am released from these irk- 
some restraints. I am not only allowed to write to 3’^ou, but, in my 
mother’s language, ask you to come and spend a good long time with 


io6 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

us at Ruby TTall. You will find here two young ladies of your own age 
and your cousins, the daughters of your uncles Harry and William. 
You cannot tell how I hail this harbinger of restoration and good 
will. It is terrible to live under a ban, even if it be that of the 
merely human decision of a weak human creature. Shall I say to 
my mother, that you will come ? We have not much to offer in the 
way of amusements ; but Ruby Hall is a dear old house, and we 
have splendid mountain scenery. I promise you to do my best to 
entertain you, though the claims of an invalid mother may call me 
from you oftener than I could wish. But your cousins are merry 
girls, and talk of you from morning till night. Will you not come, 
my dear, and brighten a lonely home? I do so long to see my sis- 
ter’s darling ! Tour affectionate, aunt^ 

‘‘ Genevieve Normandy.” 

I looked up at Cousin Philip. He was still start- 
lingly pale, and there was a drawn look about his 
mouth I had never seen before. Could it be that he 
suffered so for my sake? You see, sorrow had made 
me so selfish I could only think of self ; I had forgot- 
ten every thing but this one dominant fact. I had 
not yet learned that the true nobility of nature is that 
which displays itself in unselfish sacrifice, made with 
only a regard for the good it accomplishes, not for the 
reward it will create. 

Well,” he said, and wiped his forehead, on which 
some moisture stood, though it was by no means a 
warm day, this seems like a direct interposition of 
providence. How very wonderful !” 

‘‘ But I don’t want to go there. Cousin Philip,” I 
said. This aunt of mine and those cousins may be 
all verj^ sweet ; but my grandmother, she who exiled 
her own child, I cannot bear to think of meeting her. 
See what an exquisite hand she writes.” 

He took the letter, and gazed and gazed as if devour- 


A TIMELY INVITATION, 


107 


ing its contents ; and yet he read not a word. Then, 
leaning his elbow on the end of the sofa, he sat think- 
ing, the letter now and then, which he still read, brush- 
ing his lips. 

‘‘ Do you know Grandmamma Normandy ?” I asked. 

He nodded, then spoke in a husky voice — “ I have 
seen her.” 

“ And isn’t she simply awful ?” 

By no means,” he said, with a smile. “ In her 
day, she was one of the greatest belles in New Eng- 
land. The papers of sixty years ago rang her praises 
in every key. Then she comes of a very old family 
— traces her pedigree baek to kings and queens, as 
the saying is ; and she is painfully proud of her blue 
blood. When your father won your mother’s heart, 
he was comparatively a poor man ; and poverty and 
mediocrity she hated. However, we won't go back 
to those old days ; they are long over and past. I 
think if your angel mother could speak to you now, 
from the home to which she has gone, she would say, 
‘ Be reconciled.’ ” 

“ O but. Cousin Philip — to go among strangers ! to 
be driven from home ! I think I had much rather 
die.” 

‘‘You don’t know what you are saying, my child. 
You are very young, and have known but few trials 
heretofore. You will sometime experience, I trust, 
how exceedingly beautiful it is to be able to bear 
prosperity and adversity alike, — the substance of the 
world, full of sweetness ; and its shadow, full of 
blight, — the sweet and the bitter side of life ever 


io8 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


against eacli other. And, more than this,” he said, 
in a softer voice, “it is Jesus, believed in as the Son 
of God, that overcomes, not only the world, but all 
the miserable cares and sordid sorrows of every-day 
life. Try, and see if you can’t go to Him. Take 
your troubles there ; you have heard how He invites 
you.” 

“ I don’t know any thing about Jesus,” I said, al- 
most angrily, and turning away. “ God is not good 
to me ; He has made me miserable ; I don’t want to 
go to Him.” 

How I must have stung that gentle heart, trying to 
forget his own griefs in ministering to mine. 

“ O Cousin Philip, forgive me,” I cried, looking up 
through my blinding tears ; “ I am so utterly miser- 
able 

“Never mind, my child; I see how wretched you 
are. May God in His own good time give you com- 
fort ! The artificial, for the present, has supplanted 
the divine : try to see something beyond.” 

“I don’t care to try,” I made answer; “I don’t 
want to think ; I wish I could forget every thing ;” 
and then I sprang up, such a feeling of vindictive re- 
sentment firing my veins that the blood seemed to 
sear my very heart, as if it were red hot. 

“ I must go up-stairs,” I said. “ Good-bye, Cousin 
Philip ; I’ll think over going to Cummingford. I 
dare say I shall have to go. But, in the meantime, — ” 
and I pressed my lips together. 

“ Do nothing rash, my child ; remember God has 
said, ‘ Vengeance is mine.’” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A BATTLE WITH THE POWERS OF DARKNESS. 

I WAITED till Cousin Philip disappeared ; and 
then, striving to hide all traces of my tears, I 
went up-stairs slowly, thinking fiercely and bitterly 
all the way. I felt so pale, that it seemed to me my 
body ached as in a chill. I wished to be pale, to be 
furious, to be any thing that would be like an avenger. 
I never paused for a moment, but went straight into 
my room. Martha must have suspected something ; 
for she half rose, half turned, as if undecided whether 
to go or stay. Oh, how I hated her ! If I could have 
been a demon at that moment, in order to have the 
power to punish her, 1 would cheerfully have under- 
gone the transformation. I suppose it was the feel- 
ing with which one exclaims, “Evil, be thou my 
good !” 

“ Martha Voles,” I said, going straight up to her, 
and still moving as she receeded till it. seemed as if 
her eyes were almost set in mine, “you are a wicked, 
dangerous, deceitful woman! You are not a girl; 
there is nothing innocent about you : you are deep 
and designing and treacherous. Do you know that I 
have a great mind to kill you ? and that I could kill 
you?” 

“ Good heavens I Miss Ada,” was all she could say, 
only she grew white to her lips, and held out her 
hands in deadly terror. 109 


no 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


“ No wonder you shake and shiver,” I went on, my 
voice thick with rage. “ You have been mean and 
cowardly ; you have plotted to turn me out of my 
home ; you have done it, virtually, for I am going 
away : but, while I remain here, find yourself an- 
other room in another part of the house. Mrs. Davis 
will help you ; there is ynore between you two than 
shows on the surface. Go ! take every thing that be- 
longs to you, and never darken this door again. If 
you meet me, don’t speak to me and I towered, in 
my anger, even above her. 

I’m sure, if your father, Miss Ada — ” but I cut 
her short, even as she began. I made her cower in 
mortal fear. She hurriedly gathered up a bundle, 
and, without saying another word, left the room. 

Then began my struggle with myself. I walked 
the room like a tigress lashed by despair. I hated 
Martha Voles; but, at the same time, I hated myself. 
I knew enough of the better life to feel that all good 
angels had departed from me, driven away by my 
own mad violence. ' Hatred was in my heart — aj^e, 
murder. It was an ugly word ; but I knew the thing 
for which it stood, mocking and grinning and scourg- 
ing, was at the moment in my heart. If he who 
hated his brother was a murderer, was I not doubly 
one in intent ? My own violent passions frightened 
me. I had been wont to contemplate my character 
as peculiarly free from the common blemishes of na- 
ture. I felt that I could forgive great crimes, until 
the time came in which I was tried. I had fiattered 
myself that the equipoise of my mind could never be 


A BATTLE. 


II t 

disturbed, and had made np scenes in wliich I, the 
wronged, had forgiven with a wondrous magnanimity. 
But what a blank had fallen over it all ! Here was 
1, none the happier because I had said my say and 
poured out the vials of my wrath. Yes, I had been 
wronged, outraged, deceived ; but, someway, nothing 
I could do or think soothed the raging of my pas- 
sions. I wandered down the stairs, like an uneasy 
animal that finds itself amidst strange surroundings. 
Bridget was just leaving the front door, having been 
about some work there. The moment she saw me she 
threw her great check apron all over her face, and 
ran down the hall. 

‘‘Bridget, don’t go,” I called; “come here.” I 
made her take her apron down. 

“ Did you know it ?” I asked. 

“ Know it ! hain’t I seen it iver since she’s been 
here ? Know it ! isn’t the green of her eye enough 
for 3^ou?” and then she went into denunciation so 
violent that I had to stop her. 

“ Why didn’t you tell me, Bridget ?” I asked, as 
gently as I could. 

Sure, you poor innocent, how would I take a ham- 
mer, and shiver the fine white statue yonder into bits ? 
Do you think Bridget could ’a’ made the first blow 
agin your heart, and I knowing how ye loved the 
mother of ye ?” 

Now, as ever, homely Irish Bridget gave me some 
comfort ; but, as I went into the long parlor, which 
had not yet lost its festive character, the horrible evil 
leered at me again, and once more I seemed given 
over to the dominion of wicked spirits. 


1 12 grandmother NORMANDY. 

“ Oh, I want help, I want help !” I cried, in an 
agony of sorrow, terror, and remorse. “ Lord, why 
don’t you hear me ? I want help ! " 

“ And you shall have help,” said a firm, sweet 

voice. 

I looked up, with almost a cry of terror, and at the 
same moment caught a glimpse of myself in the long 
mirror leaning from the wall. My tear-stained race, 
dishevelled hair, and wild countenance repulsed my 
beauty-loving senses. I tried to hide myself, but 
could not; for there in the doorway stood Doctor 
Henry, a world of sympathy in his dark eyes. 

A grand man he was, handsome with the magnetic 
beauty of goodness, great with the impress of a di- 
vine nature, gentle and royal together, — a man God- 
sent, God-loving, aye, even God-like. 

“You are tired and almost ill,” he said, coming 
gently forward and leading me to a seat. It was at 
the side of a rarely carved table, in a satin easy-chair, 
that was like thorns to me now. He himself brought 
another chair, so that he sat facing me. It was very 
still outside; for Cousin Philip had taken Blossom 
with him, and within doors we were not liable to be 
disturbed, either by inmates or visitors, as all my 
party calls had been received. 

“Now, come, let us reason together,” he said, with 
unwonted sweetness. “ The Lord has sent me to com- 
fort you. That’s a way He has. He lets the bruised 
spirit suffer until it feels its need of Him, and then 
He speaks.” 

“ I don’t know any thing about Him,” I said, des- 


A BATTLE, 


I13 

perately. “ I wish I did ; but I don’t understand, 
and I can’t believe, so that one minute I call on God, 
and the next don’t know whether there is a God. O 
Doctor Henry, I am so wretched !” I looked pitifully 
towards him. He seemed so helpful ; his great brown 
eyes were fairly luminous with spirituality ; he looked 
so strong, so sweet, that I caught myself thinking that 
Christ must have been such a one in bodily appear- 
ance. 

“ I see you want to be convinced,” he said. 

“ Yes, thoroughly, beyond doubt. I want to know 
just what Christ is, just what He did, how I am to 
believe in Him. I am in sorrow and in trouble ; but 
I can’t bear to feel — I might as well say it — wicked 
to fiendishness. It isn’t like me ; I never did before. 
I have always loved everybody ; I have been hopeful 
and happy and gentle : but it seems as if every thing 
good is crushed out of me ; I can only liken it to a 
whirlwind of darkness. It frightens me. If there is 
any help for me — ” 

He answered my wistful look with a smile. 

Well, my child, you have learned this much, that 
Christ was a promised Savior,” he said, his fine face 
beginning to glow. 

‘‘ Yes, sir; I know the Jews expected Him.” 

‘‘ Yes ; and how he was born in the manger, and 
grew up among his own. His perfect manhood did 
not commence in Heaven, but here on earth. His 
human nature was the same in essence as our own. 
He was a splendid specimen of unblemished human- 
ity. He lived on this earth. He was seen and known 
8 


GRANDMOTHER NORM AND T. 


114 

of Apostles and Disciples, also Jews and enemies. 
Angels talked with Him. He raised the dead. And 
yet He was an outcast.” 

“ They did not believe Him, then,” I said, ‘‘ though 
they saw Him ?” 

“ The question implies your own doubt, my child. 
They did. not believe in Him simply because He came 
among them poor and lowly. What human purpose 
made Christ an outcast? Was it the craving of am- 
bition to rise into the realm of power? If empire 
was His object, His history shows how readily He 
might have gained His wish. Was it the ostenta- 
tious popularity of a singular being? Surely, His 
preaching thwarted the very possibility of such an 
odium. Was it the vindication of persecuted rights ? 
Not so ; for His loyal obedience to the powers that 
were gave Him the advantage of His brethren. Now, 
you see. Miss Ada, I am talking to you just as if you 
were a man ? Shall I go on ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” I cried. “ If you only knew how hun- 
gry I am for this knowledge, and what a dreadful un- 
believer I have been !” 

‘‘Very well, then. There was too much tender- 
ness in His manner to mark Him as a warrior, too 
much self-abnegation and humility to brand him as a 
pretending enthusiast, too much frankness of behavior 
to cast Him forth as a stirrer-up of sedition. 

“ Then, as now, — but much more marked, — the 
spiritual element in man’s nature was sleeping. Re- 
ligion was a form, not a living fire. The body of 
truth was enervated ; it lay as a corpse in the temple 


A BATTLE. 


I15 

of Jew and Pagan. Light and warmth were wanted. 
A living power was needed to impart vigor to the de- 
caying frame. A prostrate morality famished for an 
impulse to rouse it into action. Christ came ; He 
was the Morning Star ! Nature awakened first in the 
bosom of the angry Herod. Then followed a cloud 
of blood, and the land was wailing for the innocents. 
Presently, Christ came teaching. Men waked to see 
a new day dawning. , Who was this Jesus, practicing 
purity ? Why, He was too good for His age — alto- 
gether too good, they said. He was wonderful, bril- 
liant, thrilling. No single living orator had ever 
spoken such burning words. Look at Him : there is 
a halo around his head. Look at Him, my child : He 
is an actual presence. The shafts of truth that fly 
from His lips detect them in their frauds. 

‘ Why, He sees my very thoughts !’ cries one. 

‘‘ ‘ How did He know that I was a hypocrite T mut- 
ters another. And one sweet, tender woman whis- 
pers, ‘ How did He know that I laid my little dead 
baby in the graveyard over there in Galilee ?’ 

“ Do you watch Him as He speaks, my child ? His 
countenance is like a flame. Everybody is troubled 
and asking questions about this mighty man.” 

He paused ; and, looking forward, his beautiful 
face grew almost seraphic. The silence seemed hply. 
Drawing a long breath, he smiled as if he had seen 
something more than mortal. 

“ Are you getting tired ?” he asked. 

“No, no: if all this concerns my very salvation, 
how can I be tired ?” I replied. 


1 1 6 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T, 

“ Right. I like people to reason out these things. 
Feeling is good, faith is glorious ; but the mind that 
reasons out its faith, and then can give a reason for 
its faith, that mind give me. 

The intensity of Christ’s glory rose as He went 
on, — as the sun lifts from the mountain’s misty sum- 
mit, and glows on till it reaches the meridian, and 
then burns an hour on the resting world. The inten- 
sity of the Savior’s glory kindled the flames of a grand 
passion in human breasts. The fortress of the king- 
dom of darkness had been assailed, and men laid hold 
on Jesus as their only salvation. This was His pur- 
pose then, my dear child, — to rouse the world into 
moral sensibility, — to chafe the palsied limbs, and set 
the blood of life astir in minds that had grown numb 
with the frosty chill of insincerity and sin. And this 
great, this wonderful, this kingly man, humbled him- 
self and became obedient unto death, — yea, even the 
death of the cross. 

I cite no fiction in this,” he added, his fine eyes 
kindling ; ‘‘ I attempt to prove no theory ; I assert a 
fact. Jesus Christ died that you and I, seeing His 
perfect life and perfect obedience, might, by follow- 
ing in his footsteps, become Christ-like. My dear. He 
forgave those dreadful Jews who tortured Him when 
He was dying.” 

“ And I find it so hard to forgive, I can’t,” I said, 
chokingly. 

‘‘Imitate Christ then. Go to Him, and ask Him 
to teach you how to forgive.” 

“ I wish I could believe, or else that I didn’t care 
about it,” I murmured. 


A BATTLE. 


I17 

“Yes, that’s what most say,” he answered, — “In- 
fidels and Atheists.” 

“ O Doctor Henry,” I cried, “ don’t class me with 
them.” 

“ Then whom shall I class yon with ?” 

My head fell on my hands. His question opened 
my eyes ; I was either on one side or the other, and I 
was not, in thought, word, or deed, a Christian. I 
knew that ; the morning’s experience had revealed it 
to me. I had looked into my own nature ; and it was 
a yawning sepulchre, full of corruption. For one brief 
hour, unholiness had revelled there, like a nest of un- 
clean things, to show me what I was. 

“ I don’t want to be unchristian, unbelieving, and 
wicked,” I murmured, my face still hidden. 

“ Then you need not, shall not be. Materialism, 
with all its boasted systems and its proud, imperious 
champions, flourishes but as poisonous but brilliant 
weeds at the base of the enduring rock. The rock 
stands, defying the snows and the tempest ; but the 
poisonous flowers die at its base, to flourish again and 
again perish at the feet of undying truth. I talk thus 
to you because I think I see the bent of your mind, 
and. because I know that Satan is making a hard 
struggle for you.” 


CHAPTER XVIL 


T/OU know — what has brought this great 
JL trouble on me?” I said, timidly, raising 
my eyes to his face. 

“ Yes; I learned it from Mr. Philip, whom I met 
this morning.” 

‘‘ I thought so ; and he sent you here ?” 

“I should have come anyway; I had an errand, 
here.” 

“ And don’t you — think — it is terrible ?” I half 
sobbed. 

“ I have known worse things,” he said, calmly. ‘‘ I 
could tell you two or three little stories that would 
make you willing to thank God for the many mercies 
you have still left.” 

‘‘ But all this long deception ! and who knows who> 
she is ? And she is not truthful — or good — and — by- 
and-bye he will see it all.” 

“ Let us hope that he will see it in time. Believe* 
that he will ; ask God to open his eyes. God can da 
wonderful things,” he said. 

“ And would He hear me ?” 

“ He has been hearing you all your life. He heard 
you through your mother’s entreaties ; — for she was a. 
saint ; — now He will hear you for your own. Try 
Him : go humbly but fearlessl}^ — I was going to say 
as you would go to your father; but, my child. He is 
infinitely more tender than the wisest, most loving 
father can be.” 


A BATTLE, 


I19 

“ I will try,” was in my heart and on my tongue ; 
but the perversity of human nature was still strong. 

“ Is not Professor Siiigard a great man ?” I asked. 

“Undoubtedly; one of the finest scholars of mod- 
ern times — great as to intellect,” said Doctor Henry, 
with a smile. 

“ I heard him say to a gentleman the other night, 
at my party, that Christianity had got to be stamped 
out.” 

“ Well, yes. Nero said just that same thing,” said 
Doctor Henry. “ He tried to stamp the life of apos- 
tolic zeal under his cruel foot, and to burn it out with 
the bodies of men, women, and children ; but where 
is Nero to-day? And yet Nero thought to crush 
Christianity. The Roman empire in those earl}" days, 
instigated by unholy priests and proud philosophers, 
persecuted the Christians in every reign. What is 
Rome now ? Rotten to the core with the decay of 
centuries. Even its ecclesiastical greatness is no 
more ; and the very blood that drenched the imperial 
city is beginning to bear fruit, at this late day, for the 
pure Gospel of the cross.” He stood erect, throwing 
back his noble head ; and the beauty and solemnity 
of his closing words thrilled me. 

“ As well might man put out his hands to bar the 
progress of eternal truth, as for all earth’s powers 
combined to force aside the on-marching millions of 
the redeemed ! The humble man of the crucifixion 
ha:: become the mighty God of the Resurrection ; and 
the world that mocked Him at the cross is turning 
every hour to recognize Him in worship on His hea 
venly throne. 


120 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


It is the true manhood, the true womanhood, that 
dares to embrace the truth. Child, your Savior died 
for you, your Savior is waiting for you : chose this 
day whom ye will serve, Christ or Mammon.” 

I want to serve Christ,” I said, rising also; ‘‘ what 
shall I do ? I want to lead the ‘ life beautiful ’ my 
mother lived.” 

‘‘ What would you do if your mother were alive 
and wished you to perform some simple duty ?” 

“ Oh, how gladly would I obey !” I said, with a 
sob. 

“ Then obey Christ ; learn of Him, seek Him in all 
you do. The smallest effort of the soul to accomplish 
this is the beginning of the work God has given you to 

dor 

“ And I must forgive — ” I hesitated. 

“ Certainly, you must forgive if you wish to be for- 
given.” 

‘‘ And,” I faltered, ‘‘ I must make no effort to pre- 
vent this — this dreadful evil ? for, oh ! it is an evil. 
I must see every thing going wrong, and never lift 
my hands — ” 

“ Lift them often, aye, unweariedly, in prayer,” he 
said, gently, the tears in his own eyes. ‘‘ I do not 
counsel you to be an automaton, a wooden doll with 
a few joints, a passive figurehead, a spiritless worm. 
No, no ! use every honorable effort to prevent what 
seems to you a wrong ; but don’t do it in the spirit 
of malice or revenge. It is well sometimes to pity 
where we cannot understand. This woman may be 
unhappily organized — all her associations in early 


A BATTLE, 


I2I 


youth may have been evil ones. She has been taught, 
evidently by a hard experience, that riches are the 
chief good, and to turn all her arts and accomplish- 
ments to use in that direction. Come, come, cheer 
up. First try to have faith in God, and the rest will 
follow. In some way, and that the very best, if you 
have full trust in Him, He wdll help and deliver you. 
Put it all in His hands ; throw the burden upon Him; 
be His child and faithful soldier from this time hence- 
forth, amen.” 

This he said with his hands upon my bowed head ; 
and it seemed as if comfort came with the words. 
The wicked hate and unhol}" unrest had gone, and 
left me quiet and subdued in spirit. I went up the 
stairs into my own room, trying hard to pity the dis- 
carded Martha. I could not recall her ; that would 
have been hypocrisy on my part, for as yet I did not 
want her near me. I was anxious now to leave the 
house ; and, though I dreaded the necessity, yet I 
must seek out my father and tell him my decision. 

But here a blank horror fell upon me. How should 
I tell him my reasons ? how touch that one subject 
without offending him? 

‘‘ Put it all in His hands ; throw the burden upon 
Him !” rang in my ears. 

1 did it, in my feeble way ; but I did it. I took 
the first step forward in the progress of a true Chris- 
tian experience. God be thanked ! I was able to be- 
gin right. 

My father met me almost affectionately. Yes, he 
even kissed me, though the kiss seemed cold. 


122 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


“You looked like your mother, child, that night,” 
lie said, with some emotion. That choked me. It 
was some time before I could speak. Might I not 
pilead with him ? Three times I opened my lips to 
speak, and three times my heart failed me. 

“ I have come to ask you, sir,” I said, at last, “ to 
.•allow me to visit my grandmother. Here is the let- 
ter my Aunt Genevieve sent me.” 

He looked at me, his dark, hollow eyes burning as 
lie took the letter. Dear, dear father ! in spite of the 
wrong he had done me, my heart positively ached 
with the love I felt for him. To be folded in his 
arms, to weep one moment on his bosom, I would 
willingly have sacrificed years of my life. 

“You wish to go ?” at last he said, uneasily. 

“Yes, sir ; it would be very lonely here — at least — 
I learned that 3^ou were going to Paris ; and, during 
the months you are gone, I — should like to be away.” 

“ It is very natural,” he said, in his low, clear tones. 

I am not sure that you will be any happier though. 
Mrs. Normandy, your grandmother, is a cold, peculiar 
woman. I would not send my worst enemy there. 
It may be, however, as she draws near the close of 
life, she is growing more human. You wish, then, to 
go ?” 

“ Very much indeed,” I faltered. 

“ You are not happy here ?” 

“No, sir, I am not happy here just now,” I said, 
chokingly. Would he speak of Martha Voles ? I 
think I prayed, almost unconsciously, that he might 
not. Resentment was gathering hot within me. 


A BATTLE. 


123 


“ I shall be gone three months. I presume your 
Cousin Philip told you — about — it.’’ 

‘‘ Yes, sir ; that is why I wish to go.” 

“ Naturally,” he murmured, musingly. A wild 
thought came to me ; it gave me a fever so that my 
very breath grew like fire. 

“ Papa,” I said, standing up, — and he must have 
seen something strange in my face ; for he half rose, 
while the smouldering light in his eyes quickened, — 
‘‘ my mother stands close by your side, and prays you 
not to do this wicked thing.” 

Then, seeing the horror in his face, the tremor of 
his frame, I rushed from the room, more dead than 
alive, and fell exhausted upon the couch in my own 
bedroom. 

When I came to consciousness, I had been ill for a 
week, so ill that, at times, my life had been despaired 
of. Faithful Bridget came up one evening, at my re- 
quest, and told me all about it. 

Indade, Miss Ada, whin ye didn’t come to dinner 
nor yet to supper, the folks grew worried, and I was 
sent up. It’s just in a roarin’ fever ye was, wid the 
eyes so bright they frightened the life out o’ me ; an’ 
all ye could do was to talk of the dead mistress, God 
bless her ! And so yer fayther come ; an’ the doc- 
ther was sent for ; and the masther he walked the 
floor down below, an’ wrunged his hands ; and yer 
Cousin Philip he coomed over ; and a nurse was got ; 
an’ I tell ye it was a sad household.” 

“ So my father did care ?” I said, faintly. 

Care ! it’s mesilf thought the man ’u’d go crazy 


124 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


poor soul ! Not that I wonther at it. I’ve seen him 
hang over ye wid the old look in his swate dark eyes, 
an’ his voice that shaky whin he did spake, that it 
sounded jist like an old woman’s crooning. I’d wager 
the love that wint out at yer mother’s grave, the' 
swate lady, was kindled agen whin he seed you so 
helpless and maybe dyin’.” 

Oh, thank God for that !” 

“ Ye may well say it,” said Bridget, wiping the 
tears from my lashes ; for I was yet too weak to lift 
my hands. “ Well say it ye may, honey. It’s me 
solid opinion he’s jist sorry for the coorse things is 
taken, and ’u’d be glad to be out of it.” 

‘‘ O Bridget, you don’t think that !” 

“ I jist do, wid every inch of me body and soul.” 

“ Did Doctor Henry come here ?” 

“ He jist called ; an’ a good man he is. But he 
wouldn’t come up. How he’s iver lived till thirty, 
my dear, wid that face of his, and not took no lady 
to wife, I can’t imagine.” 

And — and Martha ?” I asked, more than anxious. 

Oh, she couldn’t stand it, my child, and so she 
went to the city to some friend of Mrs. Davis’s ; and 
she’ll not be back agen while you’re in the house, the 
hussy !” 

‘‘ Perhaps she never’ll come back, Bridget.” 

Don’t ye believe it, miss, dear. Mrs. Davis is 
still waters, and runs deep ; but I can see it in her 
eyes an’ ketch it now and agin in her words, that 
Martha Voles intends to be mistress here.” 

I was glad she was gone, though I had learned to 


A BATTLE. 


125 


pity her, — glad when the doctor said a change was 
absolutely necessary, and preparations were made to 
take me to Curamingford. My father came to see me 
often ; and, though still undemonstrative, it was as 
though he had forgotten the language and bearing of 
affection. He talked very little ; but it pained me to 
observe that his eyes had grown yet more hollow, and 
his face had gathered an anxious, unhappy expression 
that betokened restlessness of mind and body. Cousin 
Philip was to go with me for more than half the jour- 
ney ; but all my arguments did not convince him that 
he ought to see me to the very door. 

“ I shall put you in charge of somebody who will 
see you safely there,” he said; and then he always 
changed the subject. Presently I could sit up, walk 
about feebly, ride out, always with Blossom beside 
me. The dear, faithful creature had scarcely left my 
room from the first. I made all my visits, particularly 
to my poor and to little Polly Riddle, who had taken 
to her bed and was slowly wasting away. 

Cousin Philip promised to write me one letter a 
week ; and Bridget, who could write fairly well, de- 
clared, that, if I wouldn’t make fun of the ‘‘spill- 
ing,” she’d let me knoAV just how things went at the 
house. 

It was all settled at last. The two big trunks se- 
curely fastened ; the carriage at the door ; my father 
waiting, strangely still, yet looking at me often ; 
Bridget crying ; Mrs. Davis officiously garrulous ; 
and Blossom in a perfect fever of dog wonder at see- 
ing all this commotion. Mr. Clewes, who was going 


126 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


to drive us, stood respectfully by the carriage, osten^ 
sibly to help me in ; but Cousin Philip almost el- 
bowed him aside, and, taking me in his arms, put me 
on the back seat. 

Good-bye, my little girl,” said my father ; “ I 
have not forgotten.” 

My heart leaped. What had he not forgotten? 
The wild words I said in my delirium on that event- 
ful day perhaps. 

How they kept Blossom back I never knew. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A HEARTY GREETING AT RUBY HALL. 

H, what a dreary, monotonous journey ! until I 



w was put in an old-fashioned coach, — whose 
driver blew his horn every few minutes, — and told 
that I had only three miles more to go. The won- 
derful scenery had held my eyes captive till they 
ached. Vegetation was always lovely in our own 
woods ; but here, where the frost was heavier and 
the cold more decided,* it was simply beautiful be- 
yond description. 

“ Cousin Philip, I’m going to be terribly home- 
sick,” I gasped, as I held on to his hand. 

“ You’re going to be as brave as a Trojan,” he said, 
laughing. 

‘‘ Won’t you, at the very last moment, go to Ruby 
Hall ?” 

‘‘ No and his face paled a little. ‘‘I can’t go to 
Ruby Hall ; I have important business elsewhere.” 

‘‘ And you’ll take care of Blossom ?” I asked, at a 
sign from the driver that he was ready to start. 

“ He shall be as the apple of my eye,” said Cousin 
Philip ; and I’ll write you about all his moods. Good- 
bye.” 

“ Good-bye !” with a great swelling sob, as I think 
of home, my father, Blossom, and Doctor Henry, all 
in a thought. 


128 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


The team was whipped up; and presently the tav- 
ern, with its horses and loungers and rosy-cheeked 
boys and waiters in white aprons, and its many- 
twinkling windows, faded out of sight. Then came 
scenery that impressed and astonished me. Every- 
where the mist-covered tops of hills shining in the 
sunlight, their splendid coloring fading into dull red ; 
fields sloping to the river, all broken out with rye- 
stacks ; and that splendid river! now sparkling in a 
billowy, white cascade, now blue as the eye of hea- 
ven. Here, there, and everywhere field and hillside, 
like great cradles of billowy gold, rocking and sway- 
ing between the hills. 

And there was Ruby Hall. I knew it at once, 
standing just at the foot of one of those grand hills. 
It looked like an aristocrat that had held its position 
for ages; and every thing about it seemed to say, I 
belong to the old house.” 

The porch of itself was a small habitation ; and, 
just as the coach lumbered up to the old gate, I saw 
a small figure in the open doorway, and a lank, un- 
couth Irishman, — to whom, for Bridget’s sake, my 
heart warmed immediate^, — coming down to help in 
with the trunks. 

My darling, my sweet girl I So this in Ada’s 
daughter ?” 

It might have been weakness, it might have been 
love at first sight, that made me hide my face in her 
neck, while her arms enclosed me and hugged me 
tightly, just as a mother’s would. 

I was not yet well, and the long journey had fa- 


A HEARTT GREETING AT RUBT HALL, 129 

tigued me ; but I just rested in that one moment o£ 
ungrudged love as I had not rested for years. When 
I looked up, I saw a slight figure in whose sweet faee 
I could trace a strong resemblance to my dead mother, 
with shining, tender eyes, and a mouth that was the 
very embodiment of grace and beauty. 

“ This is a lonely old house,” she said, hovering 
about me, taking my cloak, my hat, and leading me 
to a large room that led up five steps from the hall ; 
‘‘ but we must all try and make it as pleasant for you 
as we can. I have to stay a great part of the time 
with mother ; but Bessy and Nancy will always be 
ready to add to your comfort. Yon won’t be very 
lonely with madcap Bessy.” 

I shall hardly know how to act, I have been so 
much alone all my life,” I said. It was a comfort- 
able room, albeit very large ; but I was used to space. 
A bright wood fire burned on the hearth : there were 
wood fires in all the habitable rooms, she told me, 
though the house was furnace heated. 

Girls !” cried Aunt Genevieve, as she led me back 
into the parlor. 

Well, aunty;” and a winsome face, framed in 
golden hair, looked in, and then came hurrying for- 
ward. 

“We were making believe we didn’t know; but 
then we did, you know,” she said, kissing me. “ This 
is my Cousin Nancy. She’s prim and grave and care- 
ful, while I’m blunt and careless ; you’ll like her, but 
you’ll adore me.” 

I laughed heartily at this little sally, there was so 

9 


130 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


much honhomie about it ; and she did look like a lit- 
tle blossom, made to be loved. 

Nancy greeted me just as affectionately, though 
with less effusiveness. Nancy was stately, though 
not very tall. She had the dark Normandy eyes and 
beautiful features. 

Pretty soon, Bessy informed me, in an ominous 
whisper, that the house was haunted, that Grandy 
Normandy was positively frightful and Aunt Gene- 
vieve the nearest approach to an angel I should ever 
see in this world, and that Nancy was dreadfully re- 
ligious, — at which, for it was all intended to be over- 
heard, Nancy smiled over on me brightl3\ 

“ You see we must spend our evenings alone ; and 
we don’t often have company now the farmers are so 
busy. Nancy, dear, I think I should be more com- 
fortable without candles, the firelight is so strong. 
I’m awfully tired of this old castle. But, then, as 
Nancy says, we shall be all the better prepared for 
the festivities of the season, for which I’m going to 
pray devoutly to be furnished with a sky-blue silk 
trimmed with Maltese lace. Are you very fond of 
dress ?” she queried, leaning out from the depths of a 
much worn red silk armchair. 

‘‘ Well, I certainly like to be dressed well,” I said, 
taken aback by the suddenness of the question ; ‘‘ but 
perhaps I don’t care so much as some.” 

“You don’t! Well, I idolize fine clothes; I love 
them and they love me : don’t they, Nancy? There’s 
Nancy there, she don’t care ; she don’t even care for 
the beaus. Do you ?” 


A HEARTT GREETING AT RUBT HALL. 131 


“ I certainly- do not,” I laughed back ; ‘‘ I have 
very few gentlemen friends, and all of them are quite 
old.” 

Hear the child !” cried Bessy ; ‘‘ she knows noth- 
ing about our Yankee customs. Well, you will have 
a chance to see at least one of our adorers ; he comes 
almost every evening. He is by no means an Ado- 
nis, — his face is one freckle, and his eyes seem all the 
time trying to jump over the bridge of his nose. To 
see him on that magnificent gray horse makes one en- 
vious. If I only owned that horse, the rider might 
go.” 

‘‘Don’t make fun of him, dear; he’s honest,” said 
Nancy. 

“ Don’t ask impossible things of me. Nan. Any 
thing in reason ; but I should laugh at poor Seth if I 
was dying,” rattled the merry girl. “ By the way, 
don’t you want to be introduced to your ancestors ?” 

Snatching one of the candles which Nancy had not 
put out, she took me by the hand. 

“ There, my dear cousin,” she said ; “look at your 
grandmother by three removes. What a beauty she 
was !” and she held the light against cheeks of carna- 
* tion and rich, red lips, eyes of soft brown that must 
have danced merrily once under the clusters of golden 
locks falling low over the forehead, much in the pres- 
ent fashion, primly kept in position by meshes of lace 
and bows of bright ribbon. 

“ Observe the art of dressmaking in those days,” 
rattled my merry companion. “ That rich white 
satin body is scarcely two inches long under the 


132 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


arms. Wide sashes and leg-o’-mutton sleeves — how 
we should laugh at them now ! Pretty though, 
rather. Don’t they all look as if they were duchesses 
at the very least? Now doesn’t it make you feel 
rather queer to think that she once lived in this very 
house, walked where we have walked, stood where 
we are standing, sang, danced? — if those tyranical 
old Normandies ever allowed such vanities. And 
then think how many long, long years she has been 
dust and ashes ! There’s an old man in my father’s 
shop, who says queer things. One day he looked up 
from a big package he was rolling along, his whitey 
gray eyes shining under a peaked visor. ‘ Miss Bessy,’ 
said he, ‘ the worst thing is we’ve all got to die.’ That 
was all ; and on he trundled with his great roll. Let’s 
go back to the fire ; I’m positively shivering.” 

A solemn knock at the door, and the Irishman’s 
face appeared. 

‘‘We call him ‘ Oriole,’ because he’s got red hair,” 
whispered Bessy. 

“ Sure it’s Mr. Smith Widdyson,” said the man, on 
a broad grin, throwing the door wide. 

“It isn’t Smith; he’s got the name wrong, you 
know: and it isn’t Widdyson ; it’s Withinstone. He 
always gets it wrong.” 

“ O never mind, Mr. Withinstone,” said Nancy, 
coming to the rescue of the awkward youth ; “ Pat is 
always a blunderer, you know.” 

“ Thank you, — yes, — how are you, ladies ?” and 
he glanced vaguely at me, as if uncertain whether I 
came under that category. “ Thank you, — ^yes, I’m 


A HEARTT GREETING AT RUBT HALL, 133 

pretty well, thank you,” turning his lack-lustre eyes 
on Bessy. 

‘‘ You are all pretty well, I hope,” he repeated, 
pushing the chair offered him so far away that he 
nearly fell down as he attempted to seat himself. 

“ Yes, we are all well, though Bessy has a cold. 
Mr. Withinstone, Miss Stewart, our new cousin.” 

I saw Bessy pinch herself as he got up and came 
forward to shake hands, and then nearly came to the 
floor again in his attempt to sit down. 

‘‘ Father sold the ten-acre lot to-day,” said the 
young man, smiling all round, — sold it for a hun- 
dred dollars an acre : fair price these times.” 

‘‘ I should think it was,” said Nancy. 

“ We’ve got a good deal of land,” he continued, 
planting his heels firmly side by side. “ Within- 
stone’s is an old family.” 

Even the horses have a pedigree, haven’t they ?” 
asked Bessy. 

The dull face lighted up. Bessy was the sun of his 
adoration ; Bessy had spoken to him. 

“ Thet’s so: all born on the farm and direct de- 
scendents of the fust stock brought over by Deacon 
Dan’l Withinstone, who came from the old country 
with twelve sons.” 

“Twelve sons,” said Nancy; “why, that beats 
your five brothers, Bessy.” 

Seth turned upon Bessy like a sunflower. 

“ Great Jethro !” said he, stretching his feet, “ you 
don’t say there’s five of ’em ! A fellow’d have to 
run a reg’lar gantlet, wouldn’t he ?” 


f34 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

This was too much for the girls ; and Seth joined 
in the laugh, evidently impressed that he had made a 
decided hit, whereupon he was radiant. 

“ Do they heft more’n I do ?” enquired Seth, anx- 
iously. 

“ They are all giants,” said Bessy, as well as she 
could for laughing. Her e3'es were so bright and her 
cheeks so red it was no wonder that half-witted Seth 
could not keep his eyes off of her. 

‘‘Well, I can tackle a man of my own size — but 
five of ’em !” and he looked at the floor reflectively. 

“ What do they do for a living ?” at last he en- 
quired. 

“ Oh, different things,” was the reply. 

“ Any of ’em farmers ?” 

“ No ; they all belong to the city.” 

“ Then, by jingo ! I’ll bet they ain’t worth half as 
much as I am,” he said, his face lighting up. “ I’m 
the squire’s only son, you know, and inherit the farm. 
There’s no tellin’ how much land there is. Father 
says I’ll be as rich as a lord. We feed three hundred 
and fifty pigs ! But, bless you, I don’t do any thing ; 
father is bound that I shall be a gentleman.” 

“ You like that, I suppose,” said Bessy, demurely. 

“ Yes; I’m not a-going to work if I can help it. I 
like a good team, you know — blood horses, you see ; 
and if I could only get the young ladies to ride — ” he 
looked imploringly at Bessy. 

“ Thank you, but Mrs. Normandy don’t want us to 
ride with young gentlemen,” said Nancy. “ She is 
very set in her way.” 


A HEARTT GREETING AT RUBT HALL, 135 

O yes — she’s the duchess, they call her ; every- 
body calls her the duchess, yon know. Then ’tain’t 
’cause you don’t want to go with me,” he added. 

‘‘ I’m very fond of riding,” said Bessy, biting her 
lip. 

“ All right ; that’s frank. But I’d like to see you 
on Black Jenny — oh, by the way, I’ve named my 
dorg, Bessy ; she’s as pretty a pointer as you’d ever 
wish to look at. Well, good-morning, ladies ; I 
should like to stay longer and he backed out of 
the door. 

Before he had well gone, Bessy was on the floor, 
all in a heap, rocking to and fro till all her braids 
came down and her face was one crimson with the 
boisterousness of her laughter. “ Isn’t he a charac- 
ter, Cousin Ada Stewart ? I was so glad you laughed, 
because, when I feel wicked, I want somebody to keep 
me company.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


NO TIME TO BE HOMESICK. 

HIS was certainly a new feature in my experi- 



1 ence. I had had no time to look back, to feel 
homesick or sad. Bessy charmed me ; I could not 
have told why, except that, in some way not to be 
described in words, she reminded me of Blossom. If 
Blossom could have talked, he would have rattled on 
just as she did, I fancied. 

After the young man had gone, she settled down to 
some fancy-work, and we were silent for a time. 

Suddenly, a door near by shut heavily, its long re- 
sounding clang moaning along the passages. Then 
came a terrible thump and rattle just outside the par- 
lor, a fall, and a long scream. 

I told you the house was haunted,” cried Bessy, 
as we all sprang to our feet, while Bessy, blue with 
terror, armed herself with the tongs and poker. 

“There’s no harm whichever done, j^oung ladies. 
It’s nothing but an accident.” 

A tall, lank woman with a Roman nose, a wide 
mouth, and three prim gray curls shading each side 
of a high, narrow forehead, stood on the threshold. 
In one hand, she held an ancient iron candelabrum 
containing three wax candles. Behind her came Pat, 
the “ Oriole,” whose Milesian features and irresistible 
grin banished all fear of immediate danger. 


NO TIME TO BE HOMESICK. 137 

“Give me that cloth, Pat, and help pick np the 
dishes, if dishes any is left,” said the prim house- 
keeper. “ No harm did. Miss Genevy,” she called 
back; and, going to the door, I saw Aunt Genevieve 
standing at the foot of the stairs in a gray niche 
brightened by a tiny candle halo. 

“Now you, Sally,” continued the irate house- 
keeper, “ the butter-dish, likewise the teapot, comes 
outen your wages. We was going to give you a lit- 
tle surprise, ladies — pick every inch of Chanay up ; 
and I wish it was your head, stoopid,” she continued, 
alternately addressing the parlor and the hall. “ It’s 
most always so when folks plan, I believe — Pat, help . 
that critter with Chanay bits right under her nose, 
and she, like a silly sheep, nosing round for nothin’.” 

Bessy was laughing, the poker still uplifted ; for 
Sally and Pat, happening to stoop at the same time, 
came into collision, and it was Pat’s turn to go down. 
Briskly extricating liimself, he rose, exclaiming,^ — 

“ Sure, it’s well buthered I am, if not well bred,” 
which pun elicited loud applause ; and he disappeared, 
grinning as usual. 

“ Isn’t he impident ?” queried the housekeeper, as 
she came forward into the yellow area of the firelight. 
“You see, I’d been thinkin’ as maybe ye wouldn’t 
like to come into the dining-room for your tea,— it 
do look pokery and dolesome, — so I was sending the 
tray in, with the table-cloth, when that unlucky hussy 
missed of a step, and down it all went.” 

“ Are there no more dishes, Mrs. Clute ?” asked 
Nancy. 


1 38 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T, 

‘‘ Bless your heart, plenty : the dishes is bewil^ 
derin’. Besides them in the spare pantry, there’s 
loads up-stairs ; and fortunate it was the great black 
teapot I sent, — which is fifty cents out of that stoojjid 
girl, — and not the keramary one you all set such store 
by; so every thing can be reasonably misplaced again.” 

“ Please misplace it directly then,” said Bessy, 
cheerily. “ We’ll have our tea-party after all. It’s 
real kind of you ; but, I assure you, my hair just 
stood up. I thought of ghosts and burglars and 
every horrid thing.” 

‘‘ (xhosts there may be, but bugglars, never,” said 
Mrs. Clute, with great solemnity. I don’t believe 
anybody would ever try to buggle with the property 
of a Normandy ; there’re held in too high an esti- 
mate. As to ghosts, everybody has their own opin- 
ions. Mine is decided.” 

“ O Mrs. Clute,” cried Bessy, with outstretched 
hands, “ did you ever see a ghost ?” 

‘‘ I have seed — what I have seed,” said Mrs. Clute, 
oracularly ; “ and what I hain’t seed I don’t believe 
in. There is all sorts of opinions, like noses and 
eyes,” she added, after a moment of thought ; “ you 
put your nose on my face, and my nose on Miss 
Nancy’s face ; and there you are, all in a muddle — 
not to say how eyes would change one.” 

I was laughing at the idea of that Roman nose on 
Nancy’s delicate face, quite forgetting that I had ever 
had cause for trouble. It seemed to me that I had 
chanced upon a delightful old museum full of quaint 
spectacles and odd people. 


NO TIME TO BE HOMESICK, 


139 


‘ But, Mrs, Clute, do save me from despair. An- 
swer me in plain English : did you ever see a ghost?” 
cried Bessy, holding to her question. 

“ Miss Bessy, lies is my abhorrence, and truth is 
hard to tell, sometimes ; therefore, don’t ask me no 
questions. I can only tell you, that, every day on 
the stroke of six, me and Pat goes the rounds, and 
there ain’t a winder nor a door that don’t git double 
locked ; for, after Pat locks it, I unlock it and turn 
the key agin to be dead sure. After them times, 
Miss Bessy, I’d rather not go brummaging and 
the shake of her head added emphasis to the asser- 
tion. 

‘‘ Then you won’t tell me ?” said Bessy. “ Of 
course you won’t. You never saw a ghost in your 
life. Isn’t she a hateful specimen of New England 
obstinacy ?” she continued, as the woman set her 
Sphinx lips together, and went out. What shall I 
do to get it out of her ? She could tell something, I 
know.” 

Tea was brought in, — honey, butter, preserves, a 
great fair white loaf of bread, plum cake in slices, 
and sage cheese. 

If there’s one thing I do like more than another, 
in tlie way of rights and privileges,” said Bessy, ‘‘ it 
is toasting bread. I shall never forget how I used to 
enjoy it in the army.” 

‘‘ In the army ! were you ever in the army ?” I 
asked. 

‘‘ Certainly ; papa was lieutenant-colonel of the 
7th Grays. Rub-a-dub, dub-a-dub — oh ! how I do 


140 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


love the drum,” she answered, flourishing the bread- 
knife dangerously. “ Well, papa was wounded; and 
Aunt Edith and I set off — Aunt Edith is my only 
aunt on my mother’s side — to take care of him. 1 
never shall forget that journey. Great Jethro ! as 
poor Seth says, what perils we did encounter. Over 
half-finished bridges, across rivers swollen by the moun- 
tain torrents ; taking tea sometimes with a black slave, 
a score of charcoal pickaninnies swarming about ns, 
then messing with officers on the cold, cold ground ; 
sleeping in hospitals and ambulances ; — but the story 
is quite too long.” 

“ Tell me,” I said, excitedly ; I was in Paris — a 
child.” 

“ In Paris ! You blessed creature ! Do you parlez- 
vous francais ? I can talk French. I shall bore you 
to death about Paris, so prepare yourself. 

“ Well, you know it was five years ago — this is ’70, 
isn’t it ? Yes. I was only fourteen, bless you, but 
as tall as I am now — and ever so much wiser. Papa’s 
hospital was his own tent. He always declared that 
my coming saved his life. It was a weird, wild ex- 
perience : I wouldn’t have missed it for a fortune. 
What camp-fires we had ! swarthy groups, all made 
blood red and bright by the flames. And hot ! you 
couldn’t sit very near, I can tell you. We cooked 
with great Gypsy tripods holding mighty iron pots. 
I suppose they were filched from some plantation. 
Can you imagine any thing more magnificent than 
the woods, lighted in great centres, with the darkness 
like a wall behind them ; stars, like fountain sprays, 


NO TIME TO BE HOMESICK^ 141 

continually going up against this background ; sen- 
tries pacing far and near ?” 

“ I never heard of any thing so grand,” said Nancy. 

“ Grand ! wh}^ the depths of those forests were as 
dense as the hiding-places of Robin Hood. The trees 
seemed like the ghosts of outlaws. It was so delight- 
ful to think the enemy might be hidden somewhere. 
You needn’t laugh : if there is any thing delicious in 
this world it’s that creeping feeling, that utterly in- 
describable rush of courage and cowardice together 
with which one in camp anticipates some sudden, hid- 
den danger. I believe I should feel so if I heard a 
snake rattle. Imagine mighty arches of oaks and 
elms all alive with color from root to branch, made 
by the merry greenwood flames. 

“ One of those great fires was my special toasting- 
place. My fork, a yard long, was made of the tough- 
est hickory — and, oh ! what a handsome little soldier 
boy made it for me ! He’s dead !” with a sigh ; killed 
in the very next battle ; and I think of him every 
night before I go to sleep. That’s what makes me 
believe in ghosts. Hundreds and hundreds of loaves 
I’ve toasted and salted and buttered, if there was any 
butter to put on. If not — now don’t laugh, girls.” 

“ What did you use ?” I asked. 

‘‘ Well, I called it ‘ drips it was bacon fat,” 

“ Horrible !” said Nancy, with a shudder. 

‘‘ Not so bad, I can assure you, the way I fixed it. 
The butter was for the sick only. They used to call 
me the little doctor.” 

‘‘ I suppose they toasted you in return,” said Nancy. 


142 


GRAND MO TIIER NORM AND T. 


O no ; I didn’t know the meaning of toasts of that 
kind,” said Bessy ; I was only fourteen. But they 
adopted me as ‘ daughter of the regiment.’ I was 
very proud of that — am now. Why don’t they bring 
the tea ?” 


CHAPTER XX. 


ONE GIRL WELL TRAINED. 

HE door opened again. First came Pat with 



1 fresh candles, then Sally, the maid-of-all-work, 
a New England rustic beauty, with cheeks like red 
winter apples. She brought the steaming tea and a 
plate of cold chicken. 

“ Now this is living,” said Bessy. “ Even if we get 
snowed up, I suppose we shan’t starve, eh, Sally?” 

“ Starve, miss I” echoed Sally, with a care-free 
laugh; ‘‘whatever we shall do with the vittles as is 
cooked and the things as isn’t, I’m sure I don’t know. 
Mis’ Clute can’t git away with ’em, no more can Pat 
and me, though Pat do eat like a ravishing wild cree- 
ter; and I’m sure you young ladies doesn’t take 
enough to keep a bird alive. Miss Jenny and the 
old lady, they mostly lives on water gruel ;” and 
Sally shook her head lugubriously. 

“So it seems we are overstocked with food,” said 
Bessy, as she slipped a round of bread inside the 
toaster. 

“Yes, indeed, in the matter of pies ’n’ things. 
There’s eighteen squashes, to say nothing of ten 
minces and appleses ; and you can’t step your foot 
for cranberries. Then there’s chickenses and hamses 
and turkeys hanging up everywhere. As for drum- 
sticks, I can say in clear conscience I’m sick of ’em. 


144 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


At home they was Sunday fixings ; here I eat ’em all 
day and dream of ’em all night. Give me pigs’ feet 
and salt fish for a relish, with pork and beans now 
and then.” 

Sally,” said Bessy, turning to get another slice, 

do you know you are very loquacious ?” 

‘‘ Lo what ?” asked Sally, with open mouth, struck 
by the magnitude of the word and startled at Bessy’s 
solemn voice. 

‘‘Loquacious,” repeated Bessy, making every syl- 
lable sonorous. “ Your vo-cab-u-la-ry is immense, 
dreadful ; isn’t it, girls ?” 

“ Very,” said Nancy, pouring out the tea into such 
dainty eggshells of cups. 

Laws ! miss, ’tain’t no disease like janders or yel- 
ler fever is it ?” asked Sally, her ruddy cheeks paling. 

“ No, Sally ; the simple English of it is that you 
talk too much,” said Bessy* 

“ Oh !” and Sally drew a long breath. “ I was 
reg’larly frightened, for I’ve been sort o’ complaining 
for a week ; but seems to me I wouldn’t want to be* 
book lamed if I had to use such awful words.” 

“ Have you brought every thing in, Sally ?” asked 
Nancy. 

“ Every thing, miss.” 

“ Then you can go,” said Bessy. 

The girl laughed, colored, but left the room. 

Then we drew up to the table. I admired the 
lovely China and the quaint silver. 

“ You should see the service in grandmother’s 
room,” said Nancy. 


ONE GIRL WELL TRAINED. 


145 


Yes, three hundred years old, they say ; but I 
don’t believe it. Grandmother Normandy don’t like 
me because of my Western training. I can’t help it. 
I had the best mother in the world, but I can’t help 
that either. Grandy thinks it’s a terrible thing be- 
cause I learned to wash and cook and scrub. Now 
don’t you despise me. Cousin Ada Stewart, because I 
tell you frankly I do like to scrub. Just to get down 
on my knees, on a solid tow apron, and handle a brush, 
with plenty of soapsuds, on a nice smooth floor — well, 
it’s just delicious. Of course I can’t do it here, or 
anywhere now ; but wait till I get a home of my own. 
I’ll have a room set aside on purpose to scrub when I 
have the humor.” 

‘‘ You’re a crazy little Puck,” said Nancy, laugh- 
ing. 

I’m a good strong healthy girl, and never know 
the luxury of a pain. I say luxury, because so many 
girls I know seem to enjoy crying their headaches and 
their backaches, and feel as if folks must like them 
better because they have some petted ache. It’s all 
humbug. There’s not one of us but had good hard- 
working ancestors, even aristocratic Grandmother 
Normandy herself. I say to be born with a silver 
spoon in one’s mouth is to be born healthy and 
happy ; and it just makes me feel good to know, that, 
if any great misfortune should come, and papa should 
lose all his money, I shouldn’t be ahinderance to any- 
body. I’d just march out and show my diploma, cer- 
tifying that I know every branch of housework from 
A to Z.” 

10 


146 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


“But where is your diploma?” asked Nancy. 

“ At home, hanging up, framed.” 

“ Have you really got one ?” I asked. 

“ To be sure I have. All my five brothers had a 
hand in it. We’re a society at our house. Every one 
of my brothers knows how to sew on buttons — and 
other things. The name of our association is the 
‘ Royal P. A. D. N. Association.’ ” 

“ Well, if ever I heard the like !” exclaimed Nancy, 
with round eyes. “ What in the name of wonder 
does all that mean ?” 

“It just means the ‘Royal Phogressiye Anti- 
Do-Nothing Association.’ Mother is president, 
father is treasurer, and all the boys and myself are 
members. As soon as we have mastered a certain 
set of accomplishments, we get our diploma — a gor- 
geous thing, all drawn up beautifully in lovely colors, 
with scrolls and pictures — why, it’s a regular work of 
art ! You see, all my brothers can paint.” 

“Well, that certainly is a new chapter in my ex- 
perience,” said Nancy. 

“Entirely new to me,” I said. “Perhaps, if 
mamma had lived — ” and then all my trouble seemed 
to rise in my throat and choke me. 

“ You haven’t seen grandy, of course,” said Bessy, 
hastening to change the subject, her eyes full of tears. 

I shook my head. 

“Well, I don’t know what you will think of her. 
She’s our common grandmother ; but there’s a differ- 
ence of opinion — well, I mean she isn’t one of those 
sweet, pretty, chubby little grandmothers that every- 


ONE GIRL WELL TRAINED, 14^ 

body loves and runs to kiss. She isn’t what a grand- 
mother ought to be. Still, she can be very gracious 
when in the mood. She was to-day, for instance. 
‘ Enjoy yourselves, my dears,’ she said, ‘ and ask any- 
body here you choose ; I give you carte hlanclie,^ For 
all that, I never go near her but what my spine stif- 
fens, and I feel like saying, ‘ Your Eoyal Highness, 
may I or may I not ?’ 

To come down to hard pan, as we say out West,” 
added Bessy, after this brilliant effort, “ she’s an aw- 
fully selfish old woman.” 

Bessy !” said Nanc}^, with a look of reproach. 

“Well, she is, and we all know it. Why not say 
so ?” 

“ Because it’s not good manners,” said Nancy. 

“ Fiddlestick !” said Bessy, impetuously. “Nancy, 
I’ll forgive you because I believe you’re a Christian, 
and you do try to mend all my ragged places. You 
have your hands full, don’t you, poor little girl? 
Someway, I can’t eat,” she added, a moment after. 
“ It takes away my appetite to know there is so much 
cooked food in the house. Do hear the wind sighing 
in the chimney. Don’t it seem almost like the voices 
of hungry, starving people ? I wish they had all this 
toast. Just see what a pile there is untouched !” 

“ I don’t think anybody is suffering round here,” 
said Nancy. “ Grandy is very good to the poor.” 

“ Yes, to outsiders ; but God pity her own poor!” 
said Bessy, almost passionately. 

“ Why, Bessy, what a mood you are in to-night I” 
said Nancy. 


148 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 

‘‘ Why don’t you add, ‘ What will our new cousin 
think of you ?’ ” asked Bessy, saucily. ‘‘ Miss Ada,” 
she continued, turning to me, “ I’m a most uncom- 
fortable girl to have round, as you will find out : but 
I leave nothing to be guessed ; I show all my wicked- 
ness. When I am converted, — as, please God, I hope 
to be sometime, — I shall be an out-and-out Christian. 
I was thinking, when I spoke as I did, of poor little 
Aunt Genevieve. I never look at her that she don’t 
remind me of a bird plucked of all its feathers, and 
trying to keep warm without them. It can’t be 
there’s no spirit in her, for I have seen her eyes flash 
more than once. What is the reason that grandy has 
had trouble with every one of her children ?” 

“ Because she tried to make automatons of them,” 
said Nancy. “ There’s a romance connected with 
Aunt Jenny’s history, you know.” 

‘‘ Yes, poor thing ! She’s just an angel to give up 
to that awful old woman. By the way, I’ve found an 
old letter — what did I do with it ? Oh, it’s in my 
room. I ought to give it to Aunt Jenny, I suppose ; 
but I don’t like to.” 

‘‘ Not if you’ve read it,” said Nancy. 

You don’t think me capable of such a thing, do 
you, Nancy?” exclaimed Bessy, with quick emphasis. 
‘‘ Thank heaven ! no ; it would sink me very low in 
my own estimation. But I did look at the signature, 
and his name was Philip. Poor fellow ! IVe under- 
stood that he is never to come here while grandy lives, 
or at any rate till Aunt Jenny sends for him. I’m 
afraid that’s almost thirty years longer for her to wait ; 


ONE GIRL WELL TRAINED. 


149 


and she’s an old maid now, only there’s nothing in the 
least of the old maid about her. 

Do you believe grandy ever cuddled her babies, 
or kissed their toes? Would you go to her in any 
sorrow ? I can only think of pins and needles when- 
ever I am near her. I wish Sally would come.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


A VISIT FROM AUNT GENEVIEVE. 

I HAD pinned my hair np and put on a dressing- 
sack that night, and then I looked round at the 
room that had been assigned me. It was splendid 
but somber. The massive wardrobes were marvels 
of carving ; the chairs, of divers patterns, heavily 
trimmed with velvet; the curtains, sweeping the 
floor, of amber velvet : in fact, I felt that the grand- 
est apartment in the house had been given to me be- 
cause I was my father’s daughter. 

I had just taken in the solemnity and beauty of the 
room, when a tiny knock at the door set my nerves 
fluttering. 

It was only Aunt Jenny, whose face seemed paler 
and more haggard, as if from some recent trial. She 
grasped my hand — hers was icy cold — and led me to 
a seat. 

‘‘ My dear child,” she said, I have not many min- 
utes to stay ; I only wanted to apologize — ^for — for 
mother.” Her lips trembled. ‘‘You have some en- 
emy.” 

“ I — an enemy !” I cried, much pained. “ Yes, per- 
haps Mrs. Davis ; but what has my enemy been do- 
ing ?” 

“ Some one wrote to my mother, — she received the 
letter to-day, — that your father had decided to marry 


A VISIT FROM AUNT GENEVIEVE. 151 

— the laundress — or some servant. You may imagine 
what effect the letter had on one with my mother’s 
temperament.” 

I covered my burning face with my hand. Mrs. 
Davis had never written that. Who could it have 
been ? To be an apologist for my father — had it 
come to this ! Surely, I needed all my new-found 
Christian fortitude. 

“ Not the laundress,” I said presently, “ but to a 
young girl, very handsome, very intelligent, who was 
my maid.” 

‘‘ Some one unfortunately unable to earn a living 
any other way, — honorable and of family ?” she said, 
smiling. 

O no, I’m afraid not ; I don’t know. Cousin 
Phil has always called her an adventuress. He never 
liked her ; he warned me against keeping her. She 
had no recommendations; she appealed to my. pity. 
I was so lonely, you see ; and her face charmed me. 
That is all I can tell you. The news came to me so 
suddenly ; and that was why I was glad you sent for 
me.” 

‘‘ Then your father will marry her ?’ 

“ I fear so. But he is going to Paris first ; he 
promised me that when Cousin Philip talked to him. 
He will stay surely three months, perhaps six. I 
think he is sorry.” 

“ That alters the case somewhat,” she said, softly. 

But what a pity that some meddler sent the news 
to mother ! To marry such a woman — after my beau- 
tiful sister ! you can imagine that mother would feel 

it.” 


152 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

“ Yes,” I said, sitting miserable, with clasped hands 
and downcast eyes. 

‘‘ My poor little darling!” and she drew me to her 
bosom. It is you who suffer most. It was that 
made you ill of course. You cannot tell how sorry I 
am for you. But never mind now ; let us trust in 
God. Who knows what He may do before the time 
expires ?” 

Are you a Christian ?” I asked. 

‘‘I ought to be. If trouble ever drives a human 
soul to the feet of Jesus, we ought to bless God for 
the trial. If it wasn’t for that, dear, I don’t think I 
could have lived all these years. But I won’t detain 
you, for you must be tired ; only I — I — must apolo- 
gize for mother. This news has shaken her so that 
she is quite ill ; and — you know she may not be able 
to see you for some days. Will you mind ?” 

She will be sorry I am here,” I said, in sudden 
terror; “I had better go home.” 

You will not go home ; for you are guest, my 
dear, and I shall be always at your service. Do you 
like your cousins ? have you enjoyed the evening ?” 

64 Very much,” I said ; ‘‘ they are both such sweet 
girls. Cousin Philip used to say I ought to have 
more company of my own age.” 

Cousin Philip seems to be a favorite,” she said, 
with a quick little pressure of the hand and a sudden 
glow in both cheeks. 

“ Indeed, I am very fond of him ; for he has seemed 
to take the place of my father — since mother’s death 
and here I caught my breath. I had betrayed what 


A VISIT FR OM A UNT GENE VIE VE. 


153 


I had intended to keep a secret — my father’s aliena- 
tion. 

“ I suppose your father is quite absorbed in busi- 
ness,” she said, simply. 

“ Very much; and Cousin Philip has no business : 
he reads and studies, and lectures for the poor people, 
and devotes his time to everybody who needs it.” 

“ He is much older than you are,” she said. Her 
hand had now got to my hair, which she pushed aside 
gently. I thought her fingers trembled. 

“ O dear, yes ; but not old looking,” I said. 
“ Cousin Philip is a very handsome man ; I know of 
but one handsomer, and that is Doctor Henry, our 
minister. You see, he was my mother’s cousin by 
marriage ; but he wished me always to call hkn Cousin 
Philip.” 

Her hand slipped down. 

‘‘He was your father’s groomsman,” she said, al- 
most in a whisper. 

“ Did you know him ?” I asked. 

“ I could hardly help having seen him — ^yes — I — 
knew him — years ago. Good-night, dear ; don’t let 
what I have said worry you ; promise me that.” 

“ I certainly will try not,” I said. 

“ And mother will come round in time. You will 
wait, and not feel hurt ?” 

“ Certainly.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE ROOM BEAUTIFUL. 

T he door sliut behind her, leaving me standing 
there looking at the fire, which was burning 
very low. At first, I thought of putting on some of 
the wood with which a box near by was plentifully 
filled ; then came a rap at a door opposite that by 
which Aunt Genevieve had gone out. I brought all 
my courage to bear to answer this summons ; for I 
was tired, homesick, and nervous. It startled me 
pleasantly to see Bessy’s piquant face, framed in a 
fluff of hanging yellow hair, which the candle in her 
hand lighted up royally. She held the ends of a long 
shawl around her neck, under which a white dressing- 
sack gleamed conspicuously. 

I don’t see why in the world they put you in this 
great gloomy room,” she said, looking round with a 
shiver. “ So I told Nancy I would come down. It 
required no little courage, I can tell you, though Nan 
stood at the head of the stairs — and we mustn’t keep 
her waiting. Come in our room ; there’s plenty of 
beds and a roaring fire, and no end of fun if you’re 
not sleepy. If you are, we will be as still as nuns. 
Come, what do you say ?” 

For answer, I gathered up my belongings, and fol- 
lowed her through a long, dark hall, now stepping 
down, now stepping up, to the stairs, where the rays 


THE ROOM beautiful:^ 


155 


of Nanny’s beneficent candle shone “like a' good 
deed and presently we were in the cosiest, bright- 
est room, all white hangings and gold, with two im- 
mense bedsteads hung with the daintiest fabrics, pic- 
tures everywhere, and a splendid fire behind a fender 
four feet high. 

“ This room is our composition,” said Bessy, danc- 
ing to the flame ; “ every bit of it save the four walls 
and the two bedsteads. It had been shut up for years, 
and the servants say it is haunted ; but we have ex- 
orcised the ghosts, rummaged the house for furniture 
and hangings ; and here we are. We call it the 
‘ Room Beautiful.’ Did you ever see such a fire ? I 
bribe Sally with a heavy bribe to keep it burning all 
the time. Now, just be comfortable. You are not 
going to be a stranger, are you ?” 

“ No, indeed,” I said ; and the name had set me to 
thinking of my mother and her desire that I should 
live the “life beautiful.” I seemed to see how, like a 
room, the life could be swept, garnished, and glori- 
fied. “ Yes, mother,” I said to myself, “ I will live 
the ‘ life beautiful.’ ” 

It was a new pleasure to watch the pretty, white- 
robed girls flitting hither and thither ; laughing ; 
shaking unconfined tresses, that, curling and shining, 
floated around them ; pausing now and then before 
their respective mirrors, all aglow with life, youth, 
and happiness ; — to listen to their innocent jests and 
repartees, to note their comical little speeches, to feel 
the thrill of happy, careless, unreasoning merriment, 
— these brightened my own sad fancies. 


156 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


I had made myself a promise to read a few verses 
in the Bible every night and morning, and had, for a 
week or two, kept up the practice regularly. Every 
girl knows that there are certain times when, in the 
beginning of a Christian experience, the tempter whis- 
pers, “ Never mind now ; put it off awhile ; the sur- 
roundings are not auspicious — and that, once yield- 
ing, the good habit is sometimes fatally broken. So 
it happened to me on this, my first night at Ruby 
Hall. 

‘‘I am tired,” I thought; ‘‘the girls are having a 
good time ; it will look affected and priggish ; to- 
morrow night I can stay by myself.” But, when I 
thought of the cold splendor of the cheerless room 
below, with no merry faces to brighten it, that de- 
cided me. I drew nearer to the light. 

“What are you reading ?” called Bessy. “O yes, 
I see,” as Nancy held up a reproving finger. As for 
me, I had opened at the thrilling words, “Let not 
your heart be troubled ; you believe in God, believe 
also in me.” How inexpressibly sweet they were at 
that moment ! I seemed to see Doctor Henry’s ani- 
mated face, and to hear his approving words. “ Thank 
God for Doctor Henry !” I said to myself, as I closed 
the book and knelt down by my bed. I had forgotten 
every thing now but my duty ; and I was more than 
delighted to see Bessy and Nancy kneeling side by 
side. 

It was many an hour before I went to sleep that 
night, such a crowd of recollections crowded mind 
and memory. My father’s face, with its anxious €x- 


THE ^'ROOM BEAUTIFULS 157 

pression, seemed ever before me. Could I only have 
telegraphed to him, through some mental process, how 
much I loved him ! Was it because he had been cold 
to me, I have often asked myself, that I loved him so 
wholly, so dearly ? or was it the instinct of a heart 
that must have something to lean upon and love ? 
How lonely the dear old home must seem ! I did not 
dare to picture the idea, that Mrs. Davis and Martha 
had possessed themselves of the place ; I waited, hop- 
ing for Bridget’s labored letter. And again my fath- 
er’s melancholy face came up before me ; and I prayed 
with all my heart, that the dear Lord God would a’v ert 
the threatened evil. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


SEVERAL LETTERS AND A WALK. 

HE second day, tlie postman brought letters for 



us all. Ah ! were mine not welcome ? Curl- 


ing myself up in one of those ever memorable chairs, 
I read Cousin Philip’s long and chatty missive. How 
good he was to give me all this time ! What sweet 
counsel flowed from his pen ! It was almost like talk- 
ing to him. 

Your father is still at Hollyhoxy,” he wrote, “bat 
Martha Voles has not yet returned. Bridget, who 
mourns your absence, tells me that Mrs. Davis ex- 
pects her back to-day. I told j^our father of the in- 
terview I witnessed the other day between his agent 
and Miss Martha, and he seemed genuinely surprised. 
I hope it may do good. Meanwhile I shall be on the 
watch. They cannot lock me out of Hollyhoxy what- 
ever they do ; and my eyes are wide open whenever 
I go there. Doctor Henry is also on the watch. He 
let fall some hints yesterday that rather astonished 
me. He is a keen man, and will leave no stone un- 
turned to aid us. 

“ By the way, my dear little girl, I have some bad 
news for you. Blossom has disappeared. Whether 
that rascally agent has put him out of the way, — for 
I think the man hated him, — or he has gone into re- 
tirement to mourn for his mistress, I cannot at pres- 


SEVERAL LETTERS AND A WALK, 


159 


ent tell ; but I am exceedingly sorry. Do not think 
it was want of care on my part. I have been a whole 
vigilance committee ; and Blossom appeared to know 
it, and resent my espionage.” 

“ O Blossom, Blossom !” I cried, half to myself. 

“ Did you mean me ?” asked Bessy, looking up 
brightly from her letter. 

“ I meant my glorious old Blossom, my Newfound- 
land.” 

“ If there’s any thing I could worship, if it wasn’t 
a sin,” said Bessy, “ it’s a Newfoundland.” 

“ He was so beautiful ! as white as snow ; and he 
is lost — or else,” — and I broke down for a moment, — 
“they have killed him.” 

“01 hope not,” said Bessy ; “ wait till the next 
letter comes. I predict you’ll have found him by 
that time.” 

This was consoling. 

“ You ought to see Bessy’s letter, said Nancy, who 
was leaning, over her cousin’s chair. “ Every one 
of her brothers has signed it. Read the postscript, 
Bessy.” 

“ Why, yes,” said Bessy. “ Oily writes it, you 
know. He’s the oldest, and this is what his post- 
script says : — 

“ ‘ Such a time as I had to get them together ! 
Phil was in the stable doctoring Billy, who has the 
epizoo ; Hal was just putting the finishing touch on 
a picture ; Paul was gone gunning as far as the front 
porch, and had to pull off his hunting-gloves ; and 
Walter, I believe he was in the midst of a sermon, or 


1 6o GRAND MO THER N ORMAN D T. 

something of the kind, for there was speculation in 
his eye, and I had to labor some time to bring him to 
his senses. “ Letter — sign — Bessy ? O yes,” says he, 
“ you’re writing Bessy ? with pleasure and he used 
that same stumpy old quill, as you see. 

“ ‘ There,” said he ; “ if Bessy judges by the body 
of the ink, she’ll think I love her better than you 
all.” And so adieu, darling. Olly.’ ” 

‘‘ Who is that scrawl from, my dear ?” asked Nancy. 

Bessy uttered a wild cry, tossed her hands up, and 
began capering round the room as she sang, laugh- 
ing 

“ ‘ A love-letter ! a love-letter ! 

What would you give to see ? 

Our Johnny is going a-courting, 

And they say he is courting me.’ ” 

“ Pray don’t let us think you are out of your 
senses,” said Nancy. 

“01 am quite — gone, irrevocably. It’s my first ; 
and I’m nineteen next month. And whom do you 
think it’s from ? Seth ! that ridiculously ardent 
young man. Well, I’ll put it in a glass case. If 
you could only see the spelling, girls ! He says noth- 
ing ever made him feel so bad — with a big ‘ F ’ — as the 
way he’s ‘ fealing ’ now. He says he’s rich, worth a 
hundred thousand dollars ; and I should have all the 
horses I want,, with an ‘ a ’ in them. Oh ! he says I 
shall live in style, with a big ‘ S ’ and a ‘ tile ;’ and he 
spells home, ‘h-o-a-m,’ and carriages with a ‘ K ;’ and 
his ‘ h-a-r-t ’ is in his ‘ t-h-r-o-t-e’ (and I guess it is) ; 
and ‘ meezles ’ and ‘ hoping-cough ’ ain’t nothing to 


SEVERAL LETTERS AND A WALK, i6i 

what he is ‘ snuffering ’ now — upon my word, girls, it 
actually is ‘ snuffering.’ See, Nancy.” 

‘‘ Poor fellow ! he is evidently in earnest,” said 
Nancy, after we had laughed nearly till we cried. 

“ Poor fellow ! Rich ninny, you mean. With day- 
schools in the land, to dare to write me a letter like 
that ! I’m ashamed of him I There, that’s what I 
think of it !” and she tore it into inch bits, and threw 
it into the fire. “ I’m just going to write him, — 

‘‘ ‘ No! 

- “ ‘ Yours respectfully 

only I couldn’t say ‘ yours respectfully,’ because I 
haven’t the least bit of respect for him. There’s the 
‘Complete Letter- Writer,’ and ‘Webster’s Diction- 
ary ;’ and he hadn’t the sense to use either. Come, 
who’s for a walk ? I want some green worsted, and 
I’m going down to the ‘ deacon’s relict ’ to get it.” 

I was very glad for a chance to go out ; for I missed 
my long rambles with Cousin Philip. The road was 
hilly and picturesque. By the side, and leaning 
against banks of the darkest green, shoiae the red 
sumac. The sky was aglow with the tenderest col- 
oring ; the hills and the rocky heights in the distance 
were alive with fire and asleep with shadow — such 
shadow I vivid as a shape and black as ebony. 

Presently, we came to the river road. Old Gray- 
lock loomed up on the other side ; and its far, faint 
shadow the ripples at our side caught and held. The 
river flashed in the sun, brawled here where it was 
shallow, sang there where it was deep. Here, there, 
and everywhere were pictures, any one of which, on 

II 


1 62 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

canvas, -would have made an artist’s fame. A little 
church set in a bit of exquisite greenery ; a school- 
house, Avith the children tumbling out and shouting 
like mad things ; the grocery, with sharp pointed roof 
and a long vista inside with barrels at the end ; the 
tavern, coach a.t the door ; and then, after a short 
walk past little houses, thrifty and bright as work 
and paint could make them, a tiny cottage all by it- 
self, not unpicturesque, holding three rooms and 
this was where the ‘‘ deacon’s relict ” lived. The one 
Avindow facing the east had on its few shelves three 
red apples, a gingerbread horse, a tumbler full of fly- 
specked candy, some spools of cotton, a doll swathed 
in cotton-Avool, and a bunch of bright Avorsteds. 

The ‘‘ relict ” was a bright little woman, her brow 
full of fine wrinkles, as kindly and sweet a face at 
three score and ten as I had ever seen. Through an 
open door, we saw the big four-poster, Avith its full 
feather bed and red-and-Avhite calico quilt. Another 
door led into the best room, so that, if ever guest did 
come, there Avas always a place ready. The tins over 
the dresser, the old blue ‘‘ Chanay ” on the sheh^es, 
the bright copper warming-pan of venerable memory 
and usage, — gave to the whole interior that air of 
thrift and conifoid which prevails in the homesteads 
of NeAv England, large and small. 

‘‘How’s your granny, dear?” asked Mrs. Dimple; 
and the name CvU-responded beautifully Avith the dim- 
ples in her cheeks. 

‘"She’s — I wonder how she is?” queried Bessy, 
with a puzzled air. “Well, she’s always sick, you 
know ; and I guess she’s no worse.” 


SEVERAL LETTERS AND A WALK, 163 


‘‘ Well, if the Lord sends it she must bear it,” said 
Mrs. Dimple, with her sweet smile. 

‘‘You couldn’t convince me that the Lord sends it,” 
said Bessy. “ How much do I owe you ? Ninepence 
— here it is. Come, girls ;” and we left Mrs. Dimple 
smiling doubtfully and shaking her head. 

“ Do you know you made that sweet old woman 
look sad ?” asked Nanny. 

“ She shouldn’t say platitudes then. I dare say 
the Lord sends sickness to some people, because whom 
He loves He chastens ; but He can’t possibly love 
grandy ; she’s too hateful. She hasn’t even sent for 
you to come up-stairs, has she ?” and she turned to 
me. 

“ No,” I said ; “ but she has a reason, I believe.” 

“ Of course : she has a reason for swallowing medi- 
cines, but it’s only in her imagination. I do believe 
it’s beginning to snow !” 

We hurried home. An early dusk had set in. 
Whether it was that, or the allusion of Bessy to my 
grandmother, I could not tell ; but a sudden home- 
sickness seized me. I longed to see Bridget’s honest 
face ; my heart ached for Blossom. Nor was the feel- 
ing dispelled till long after tea, when Aunt Genevieve 
came into the great parlor, with the inevitable can- 
dle. 

“ If I were going to paint a picture of New Eng- 
land in the country,” said Bessy, sniffing with her 
cunning, impertinent little nose, “ I would paint my 
canvas black, and put a candle in the middle.” 

“ Yes, I certainly should prefer gas,” said Aunt 


1 64 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T, 

Jenny, as she put the candle down ; “ but we must 
bow to the inevitable.” 

I looked in her face. How calm it was ! and yet 
the eye so soft had been all alight with the glow of a 
fervent love. The prim lips had whispered sweet 
words, the cheek had reddened at the sound of a 
coming footstep. She had loved and lost ; she was 
therefore sacred. 

It is a too common error to attribute to those whose 
quiet habits and orderly mode of existence make them 
seem exceptional, especially single women, a passion- 
less career and temperament. Some of these pale, 
silent women could tell an experience which would 
stir the heart to its depths. 

Aunt Jenny was one of these living martyrs. Her 
pathetic story, which Bessy had told me, — the buried 
life among the mountains of New England ; her rigid 
adherence to duty and principle, cost what it might ; 
the sweet serenity of her countenance, — disposed me 
to look upon her as a being of another order than my- 
self. I believe we girls had all gained a new point 
of vision at Ruby Hall. Our lives had been so full 
of vitality before that, that it was difficult to imagine 
an experience at once isolated and exceptional. It 
was obvious, also, that Genevieve had not lapsed into 
the prim fancies and peculiar habits that, to a youth- 
ful perception, are inseparable from a spinster’s con- 
dition. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Bessy’s decision. 

I SAT back that evening, making my observations, 
and let the girls talk. I wanted to study Aunt 
Genevieve, chiefly that I might have an objective 
point for my letter to Cousin Phil. Genevieve Nor- 
mandy was a lovely woman. She was not as fair as 
my mother ; her expression was less emotional. The 
practice of repression had become habitual ; but that 
did not prevent her from being very, very lovely. A 
narrow circlet of pale blue ribbcn brightened the 
glossy brown hair, which waved delicately without 
the aid of crimping-pins or other instruments of tor- 
ture. At her throat, was a knot of the same color. 
A singular purity dwelt in her face and colored all 
her movements. She gave me the same impression 
of living on a higher plane than ordinary mortals that 
Doctor Henry did, though in a different and more ar- 
tistic sense. Her dress was simple and becoming 
Slender bands of gold clasped the well rounded 
wrists ; and, though she still wore the white apron, 
which seemed an indispensible adjunct to her cos- 
tume, yet it was so graceful with its dainty ruffles 
and edges of lace, that it only added to the youthful- 
ness and attractiveness of her appearance. 

“ You are going to stay with us,” said Nanny, de- 
lightedly. “ That is an unexpected pleasure.” 


1 66 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

Thank you, dear,” responded Aunt Genevieve. 
“ Yes, a little while. Mother went to sleep without 
her drops, — she has been very restless all day, — and 
I have left Mrs. Clute on guard.” 

“ Splendid watch-dog,” said Bessy, saucily. 

‘‘She’s just as good as gold,” was the response; 
“ and, when she said I must trust to her ‘ diligence,’ 
I knew what she meant.” 

“Vigilance, I suppose,” said Nancy. “We have 
very few such servants in New York. Have you 
ever been to New York, aunty ?” 

“ I’ve never been anywhere, my dear,” said Aunt 
Jenny, moving a prim old hand-screen worked in green 
and gold by some dead and gone Normandy, to shade 
her face, and taking out her lace-needles. 

Bessy was on her knees on the broad marble hearth, 
roasting apples. Presently, she passed round some 
nuts in a paper bag. 

“ Why don’t you ring for plates, my dear ?” asked 
Aunt Genevieve. 

“ Because this is a great deal nicer; or, if not nicer, 
moie enjoyable. It reminds me of my youth — and of 
the army,” she added, puckering her lips and trying 
with all her might to look prim and proper, as became 
age. 

“ Why, Aunt Jenny !” she exclaimed, “ I’ve seen 
so little of you that I really and truly thought your 
eyes were blue.” 

“ None of the Normandies have blue eyes, my dear,” 
was the answer, a touch of pride in the gentle voice. 
“ By the way, Ada Stewart, you had a letter to-day,” 
turning to me. 


BESSr^S DECISION, 


167 


Yes; from Cousin Philip,” I said. 

“ All !” she moved the screen with a quick, nervous 
turn of the hand. 

“ And I — had a letter, too,” said Bessy, creeping 
to cut off the firelight between Aunt Jenny and 
me ; “ and it was a proposal ; and he spells horse 
‘ h-o-a-r-s-e.’ I think before I would marry a man 
like that, I’d wait here in the mountains till I was 
fossilized.” 

I saw the delicate cheek nearest me turn faintly 
red ; and Bessy seemed to think, a moment after, that 
she had been guilty of an impertinence, for she made 
mouths at me, expressive of violent penitence, under 
cover of the shade cast by the lamp-screen. 

I hope you never will be a fossil, dear ; it is so 
pleasant to see youth, and have young faces about 
one,” was the gentle reply. 

‘‘Young faces! why, your face is young enough, 
I’m sure,” said Bessy, blundering into a compliment. 
“ You don’t look twenty ; and — ^please, if it isn’t a 
saucy question, how old are you?” 

“Not at all, my dear; I am thirty-one,” was the 
quiet reply. 

“ And you have always lived in this pokey old 
place ?” 

“ I have seen some happy hours in ‘ this pokey old 
place,’ as you call it.” 

“ Well, I think it’s time you saw something of the 
world. Mercy I the thought of dying without even 
seeing New York.” 

“ But I hope to live a few years longer, even if I 


1 68 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T. 

don’t see New York,” responded Aunt Jenny. “Of 
course I couldn’t go there, even to see my relations, 
and leave mother alone.” 

What an awful constitution she has got !” groaned 
Bessy. 

. Aunt Jenny smiled involuntarily, though perhaps 
something like heartache came with a vision of those 
piercing black eyes, that clear, strong voice, whose 
domination she had served longer than did Jacob for 
Eachel. 

Hereupon ensued an animated discussion concern- 
ing the advantages of city life — amusements, lectures, 
galleries ; and the little lady, though I saw she drank 
in every word eagerly, and was now pale, now rosy, 
kept whatever emotion stirred her heart well under 
control. 

“Cousin Phil,” said I, oracularly, “has travelled 
almost all over the world and lived in most of the 
principal cities ; but he says he prefers the beauty 
and quiet of the country to the finest city he ever 
saw.” 

Aunt Genevieve turned to look at me, her face all 
aglow, just for a second ; then her head bent low over 
her needles. 

“ O of course — an old man — exhausted them all, I 
suppose ; wants to rest his silvery head in the lap of 
solitude,” said Bessy, mockingly. 

“ Indeed ! I’d like you to see him,” said I, indig- 
nantly. “ Silver head ! why, his hair is as dark as 
mine ; and you never saw a more splendid mous- 
tache.” 


BESSr^S DECISION. 


169 


The laugh was against me; but Aunt Genevieve 
turned again, and gave me a sweet, loving glance. 
Then she went at her knitting ; but her fingers trem- 
bled, and something fell upon the needles that made 
them suddenly and briefly bright as any diamond, or 
else my eyes played me false. 

Pat made his appearance just then, after his usual 
knock, and came in head on one side and visage elon- 
gated. Every red hair seemed to bristle with indig- 
nation. 

‘‘ Th’ould mistress be wantin’ of yer. Miss Gene- 
vave,” he said ; and, as his quick eye took in all the 
comfort and beauty of the situation, it rested with 
a softened, pitying look on the gentle face turned 
towards him. 

“ Very well, Pat,” was the quiet answer ; and Aunt 
Genevieve gathered up her needles. 

“ Indade, Miss Genevav^, I think she might be jist 
satisfied wid the housekeeper once in a way,” he said. 
Long and faithful service entitled him to a degree of 
familiarity. 

‘‘Never mind, Pat ; naturally she prefers me,” said 
my aunt. “ Good-evening, girls ; enjoy yourselves ;” 
and she was gone. 

“ And the apples just done to a turn !” moaned 
Bessy. “ Pat, get us some wood, won’t you ? — well 
seasoned.” 

“ Yes, miss ; if it’s well sazoned ye wish for, it’s 
well sazoned I’ll git. There’s on’y forty cord out in 
the open ; bin layin’ there a matther of two years. 
But it’s moighty harrd on Miss Genevave : she be as 


J 70 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 

liarrd as an oak-three at the heart of it and he went 
out, shaking his head. 

“ Saucy and handsome, rather,” said Bessy, turn- 
ing the apples, as they spluttered and broke into 
drifts of white over their crimson jackets. 

Pat is saucy enough, but by no means handsome,” 
said Nancy. 

‘‘ I adore red hair,” responded Bessy. “ Can’t we 
get up a frolic of some sort ?” she asked, her mood 
changing. Who sings ? I know just by the crin- 
kle in her eyes !” and she pointed triumphantly to 
me. 

Here’s the piano, quite rusty for want of use, — 
the piano your own mother played upon, no doubt, 
though I believe it has been made over once or twice.” 

I went to the instrument. Its tones were silvery 
sweet, more like the resonance of glass than of wire. 

O you darling !” cried Bessy, hugging me. “ Bless 
my soul, what a voice ! She don’t know her own 
value. Oh, how sweet ! how clear ! how beautiful !” 

Can you sing ‘ Bonnie Doon ’?” asked Nancy. 

‘‘Just like Nanny for all the world — old songs!” 
said Bessy. 

“ I sing nearly all the Scotch songs,” I said ; 
“ Cousin Philip likes them.” 

“What a paragon this Cousin Philip must be!” 
said Bessy. “ Why won’t he come here ? Ask him, 
will you ?” 

By this time, I was prepared to sing “ Bonnie 
Doon.” I never felt such an impulse to do my best. 
The acoustic properties of the quaint old parlor must 


BESSr^S DECISION. 


171 

nave been remarkable ; for my voice rang and rang 
to the very outer limits. I had just got half through 
the second stanza, when the door flew open, and an 
apparition appeared, dancing, waving long, lank arms, 
wheezing, and shaking. 

It was Mrs. Clute, her wide capstrings tied atop 
her head, her gown pinned up to the knees, and her 
scarlet petticoat making a bright foil to the general 
dimness of the perspective. 

‘‘ In the name of Ruby Hall and all its patron 
saints !” cried Bessy, her cheeks as pale as death, 
“ what do you mean? Have you got St. Vitus, or 
is there Shaker blood in your veins?’’ 

“ Don’t, young ladies !” cried Mrs. Clute, in appar- 
ent agony, as she tried to catch her breath. Of all 
things, that chune ! it nearly sot the old lady into 
’stericks ; and poor Miss Jenny is that faint with 
holding of her mother and trying to soodge her, that 
it’s awful to see her eyes sticking out ; and I stum- 
bling down the staircase almost three steps at a time, 
on my head, to stop it. And the voice — mercy on 
me ! the voice was that poor lamb’s over again. 
That’s what did the mischief. You see, I was a-set- 
tin’ before the fire, an’ was jest a-goin’ ; — for the old 
lady is that pernickerty that she can’t abear anybody 
about her but Miss Jenny, poor thing ! — and, when 
that chune come up so clear and sweet, you’d never 
believe how she began to rave. Well, mercy ! what 
next, I wonder.” 

“ Nanny, let’s go home,” said Bessy, petulantly. 
‘‘ If we can’t even sing, — and such a glorious voice, 


172 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 

and so much comfort to be got out of it ! — I say 1 
won’t stay.” 

“ O now, Miss Bessy,” said Mrs. Clute, unpinning 
her skirts and restoring her capstrings to their normal 
condition, ‘‘ don’t be rash.” 

“ Rash ! to want to leave this miserable old den,” 
said Bessy. I think I’ll go up-stairs to-morrow, and 
give grandy a piece of my mind. I’m quite capable 
of it, understand.” 

‘‘Well,” cried Mrs. Clute, with a heavily .drawn 
breath, “ you’d be the first one.” 

“I’ll do it,” said Bessy; “ and my cousin shall sing 
too. Why, it’s a dollar a ticket to hear Albani, and 
here’s a voice as fine as hers to be bad for the asking.” 

“ Never mind,” I said, feeling that I was the bone 
of contention. “I’ll sing for you as much as you 
like up in our room ; she can’t hear there — and I 
found an old guitar this morning. We’ll have it new 
strung, and I can play it,” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE STORY OF THE LITTLE GIRL THAT SANG. 

RS. CLUTE disappeared at the ringing of a bell. 



ivi Presently, in came Pat with a basket of lus- 
cious grapes, with Mrs. Clute’s compliments. 

“ Her son brought ’em,” said Pat. “ He’s a hogri- 
culturist, I think.” 

“ Horticulturist, you mean, Pat,” said Bessy. 

Aren’t they beauties ? a sort of compensation for 
our disappointment. Did you forget the wood, Pat ?” 

“ Not a bit of it, miss ; I’ll bring it in directly,” 
said Pat. 

“ If grandy should only live till ninety,” said Bessy, 
sorrowfully, — and she’s bound to do that, — there’s 
twenty years of slavery for that blessed little Gene- 
vieve. Why, it’s simply burying her alive ! Think 
of her having to soothe and pet and coddle her to- 
night just because you sung !” 

No ; because I reminded her of somebody else,” 
I said. “ Who was it ?” 

Why, I suppose,” said Nancy, deliberately eating 
her grapes, “it was the ghost.” 

“Now you are talking nonsense,” I said. 

“Well, that’s only tradition, of course; but you 
know, — or perhaps you don’t know ; we all do, — that 
the most beautiful of grandy’s daughters married 
against her will, just as your mother did. But she 


173 * 


174 


GRANDMOTHER NORM AND T. 


did not happen to marry such a man as your father. 
He was unkind ; and, when he found there was no 
money coming, took his wife abroad ; and there she 
died, leaving one little child. I don’t wonder grandy 
was nearly driven crazy by this trial, for the man was 
an adventurer ; but she had no right to carry her em- 
nity to the second generation. Here comes Pat with 
the wood ; he can tell you all about it, if we can get 
him to talk.” 

The man came forward with his arms full, almost 
staggering under the load of logs, which he placed in 
the great carved box, covered with plush when not in 
use. Settling himself upon one knee, he lifted the 
poker, but, before stirring the great bed of crimson, 
glowing embers, he gave a flourish with the iron, and 
brought it down upon the blazing back-log, over which 
thrills of live flame like crimson waves were running ; 
for it was burned almost to breaking. Then, as 
the sparks and coals rattled and fell and fused, and 
marched in glittering phalanx up the broad, black 
background of the huge chimney, he said, with em- 
phasis, glancing around, — 

‘‘ An’ that’s the way it’ll come to her, faix, if she 
don’t repint.” 

‘‘ Come to whom, Pat ?” asked Nanny. 

‘‘Th’ould mistress — maning no disrespict. Af 
she don’t bind soon, she’ll be broken suddint and 
the man’s face looked almost heroic in the glow of 
the Are. ‘‘ I’ve no patience wid folks as sind their 
own flesh and blood away to be starved;” and Pat 
ended the sentence with fierce emphasis. 


THE STORT OF THE LITTLE GIRL. 175 

Do you remember the little girl that sang ?” asked 
Bessy, with a glance at me. 

“ Do I ? doan’t I ?” queried Pat, with a solemn 
shake of the head. “ She’s heavy on the mistress’s 
conscience to this day. And a swate little thing she 
was, as swate in dying as in living. ’Twas ten years 
ago, mebbe, when she come here. There was com- 
pany, but they’d all gone out a-nutting. There was 
a frost, I remember, and purty could weadther. These 
fingers let the child in, and she give me a note for the 
ould mistress. The note I give to Mrs. Clute for to 
carry up, and I let little miss into the parlor ; and I 
couldn’t help looking through the glass of the door 
to see what would she do. Firstly she give a look to 
all the pictures, a-walking round with that pretty, 
graceful way the mother of her had; then she seemed 
to take note of all the furniture ; an’, last of all, she 
went to the piano, and opened it as soft as a little 
mouse, and sot down and tinkled, tinkled so aisy, 
sort ; then she got on the low cricket by the fire, 
where her ma often sot afore her, and put her little 
chin in her little white hand — I’d have sworn it was 
Miss Hatty hersilf, the darlin’ ! 

Presently,” continued Pat, shifting his position a 
little, Mrs. Clute comes a-walkin’ in, stately like, — 
you all know what a grand person she is, — and, seeing 
the child., she stopped short. The girl looks up this 
way, and says, timid like, — 

‘‘ ‘ Are you my grandmother ?’ 

“ ‘ The Lord preserve us !’ said Mrs. Clute (but, 
mind ye, she’s never tired of telling how she be some- 


176 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


times mistook for tk’ ould mistress), ‘ you must be 
Hatty Normandy’s child.’ 

‘ Yes, she was my mother,’ says the little crater. 

“ With that, Mrs. Clute she jist ketches her up, 
and hugs her like — like any thing, and tells her that, 
though she’s not the grandmother of her, she loves 
her mightily, and all that. And then bethought she 
that she had an answer in her hand ; and, with a 
mighty grave face, she put the billet into them little 
white fingers. 

Sure, it was bad, what followed,” said Pat, shak- 
ing his head. 

‘‘ ‘ She won’t see me !’ cries the child ; and down 
she goes, white as a sheet, on the floor. Well, the 
housekeeper worked over her and brung her to. Poor 
child ! she wouldn’t stay here at all, at all.” 

‘‘ The little goose !” burst in Bessy, with sparkling 
eyes, while 1 was almost crying the case was so anal- 
ogous to my own. ‘‘You wouldn’t catch me to go 
away,” she added, her face crimson ; “ no, not'*for all 
the curses of all the Normandies in creation. Stay 
here ! I’d stay here till Doomsday, if I had to sleep in 
the scullery. I'm afraid she was a pitiful little thing, 
that small cousin of mine, with no spirit.” 

“ ’Dade, ye might be proud of her, thin,” said Pat, 
with a reproving glance. “ You know, perhaps, old 
Nurse Dimple down here. She wasn’t a Dimple them 
days, but a — ” and Pat scratched his head, and re- 
flected. 

“ Leg- 0 ’-mutton ?” suggested Bessy. 

“ Go away wid the likes of ye !” said Pat, laugh- 


THE STORY OF THE LITTLE GIRL, 


177 


ing ; “ a Lamb she was, now I think of it — she that 
had nursed all the Normandies ; and Mrs. Clute sent 
the poor child there. Very well, Miss Genevave 
prays and labors wid the mother of her, so that by- 
and-bye she says the child can come, but she never 
wishes to see her.” 

I’d prayed and labored, I think,” said Bessy, her 
eyes flashing. 

“ Ah ! but ye don’t know th’ ould mistress; she’s 
too much for the grapple of us. Still, who knows ? 
ye may have been sint here to do the Lord’s work ; 
for a nater little imp of mischief I’ll declare I never 
sot eyes on.” 

‘‘ Well, Pat, I must say your compliment is neither 
very choice nor elegantly put,” said Bessy, laugh- 
ing. 

P’r’aps not, miss,” said Pat; “but it’s no harm 
I’m mailing. If ye have almost turned th’ ould house 
inside out, ye might turn th’ ould mistress.” 

“ Well, the child came here,” said Nancy. 

“Yes, she came ; but the spirit of her was broken. 
She’d not had the best of tratement, poor soul ! she’d 
been exposed to many sufferings, and it pulled down 
the constitution of her. She’d sit and sing, all by 
herself, at th’ ould piany there ; and her gift was 
wonderful, — for her father was a professor of music, 
— an’ sometimes, more oftener, she’d sit wid Mrs. 
Clute an’ me in the housekeeper’s room. And so she 
faded and faded ; an’ never an eye did that wicked 
ould woman set on her to the last.” 

“ I don’t wonder she couldn’t hear the singing to- 
12 


178 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


night,” said Bessy. Cousin Ada Stewart, you look 
as glum as a sorrowful canary. You are not going 
to trouble yourself because grandy won’t see you, are 
you ?” 

I think,” I said, from the fullness of my heart, 
I had rather she would never wish to see me.” 

“ Bravo !” cried Bessy, clapping her hands as Pat 
left the room ; ‘‘ there spoke the Normandy spirit. 
Nanny, I begin to perceive that just possibly, as Pat 
says, I’ve been sent here to do the Lord’s work, 
though he did hint quite as broadly that I was an 
imp of Satan. My spirits rise at the prospect. Dan- 
iel was kept unharmed, even in the lion’s den ; and, 
if the Lord will give me the right words to say, 111 
say them.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


UP IN GRANDY NORMANDY’s ROOM, 

I SHALL take an author’s liberty of dropping the 
first person, and transcribe what Aunt Genevieve 
has since told me took place that night when my un- 
lucky song penetrated the silence of grandy’s sick- 
room. 

When Miss Genevieve left us, at the summons of 
her mother, with some little reluctance, she stole si- 
lently up the stairs, passing the great clock at their 
foot, which had ticked so many Normandies in and 
out during its two hundred years of time-keeping. 

The hall was black with shadows. The candle 
flickered in the strong draughts, its small light show- 
ing here and there a glimmer of the polished mahog- 
any, that, quaintly carved, formed the solid old-time 
cornice and the top of the ponderous banisters. 

The stairs were very wide, very slippery, very brown, 
and very bright with long usage and much wax. On 
the first landing, was a deep, arched window draped 
Vvith heavy curtains. 

Miss Genevieve went quietly on, thinking of neither 
window nor stairs. She had been acquainted with 
their solid beauty from childhood, and needed no can- 
dle in the darkest night to go up or down. She was 
conscious only of a new delight, which she hardly 
dared acknowledge to herself. Her step was more 


I So GRAND MO THER NORM AND r. 

bounding ; her heart swelled with a momentary happi- 
ness too great to be expressed. 

‘‘ Thirty-one, and still sentimentaL!” she murmured, 
with a ner\ ous little laugh. But it makes me happy.” 

She was unwontedly happy. Contact with the 
bright young natures below was like a reviving cor- 
dial to the faintiiig invalid. A tint of their beauty, a 
l)reath of their laughter, a sweet waft of their blessed 
youth, she carried with her from the stately old par- 
lor to the stately old room she presently entered. It 
was in size and shape an exact counterpart of that she 
had just left. 

With the exception of the area just beyond a small 
but bright wood fire burning on the hearth, and a 
square of brilliant Turkey carpet, the room was dark. 
Nothing was discernible at first sight, save when the 
fire sent fitful flashes out into the gloom beyond, when 
one might see a tall, richly gilded old screen, half en- 
closing a bed of ancient shape, heavy with draperies. 

Another leap of the red flame ; and, on high pil- 
lows, might be discerned a thin, dark face, with finely 
outlined features that must once have been surpass- 
ingly beautiful. This face was framed in a sheer, 
closely crimped ruffle of costly old lace ; and the 
large, haughty dark eyes, in which the fire of youth 
still burned, gave one the impression of an unquiet 
spirit. 

Mrs. Clute had just come up with some grapes, and 
hoped to pass away unobserved. 

Don’t whisper, Clute ; it’s bad manners. What 
did you leave me for, Jenny?” asked the invalid; 


UP IN GRANDT NORMANDT^S ROOM, i8i 

and her voice, though high pitched, was not ungentle. 
‘‘You know that, if there is one thing that can be 
done more aw^kwardly than another, Clute is the wo- 
man to do it.” 

“ You were sleeping so sweetly, mother, when I 
went out,” said Genevieve, while Mrs. Clute, know- 
ing by experience that protest or explanation were 
alike useless, quietly left. 

“You know I always like you to be here when I 
waken;” and her hand groped for the fine handker- 
chief that lay on her pillow. “ Clute spills my drops ; 
she always does. Women with large fingers and 
clumsy thumbs should never be entrusted with the 
care of the sick. Not only are they unpleasant to the 
sight, but they indicate a coarse nature.” 

Poor Genevieve looked at her own slender fingers 
with a sigh. How many drops they had poured out, 
to be sure ! 

“ I’m miserable to-night, very miserable,” moaned 
the invalid. “ What time is it ?” 

Miss Genevieve, watch in hand, stepped back to 
compare it with the clock. 

“ Just nine, mother, to a minute.” 

“ Only nine ! I thought it was midnight.” 

“ So you see I didn’t leave you for a great wliile,” 
said Genevieve, with a smile. “ Shall I change yonr 
pillow ?” 

“No ; I’ll get up ; I’ll sit awhile by the fire. I'm 
so wretchedly ill to-night ! I wish I didn’t see faces 
— faces ! I wish I didn’t.” 

Her daughter brought a rich silk dressing-gown, 


1 82 GRANDMOTHER iV ORMAN D T. 

which she carefully warmed and wrapped about her 
mother, handed her a cane, and, herself a support on 
the other side, she led her to the fire. 

“ Faces! faces I faces I” muttered the unhappy old 
woman. ‘‘ When shall I have done seeing faces ? It’s 
so hard to bring them up and then to lose them I But, 
worse than all, the ingratitude !” 

‘‘ Now, mother, can I do any thing to make you 
more comfortable ?” asked Genevieve, cheerfully. 
The small figure standing there in its dark blue Cash- 
mere and its soft laces made a strong contrast. One 
would never have thought the two were mother and 
daughter. 

Yes, bury me, my dear,” said grandy, with a sin- 
gular smile. Strange, isn’t it, how hard it is for 
some old people to die ?” 

‘‘Don’t talk so, mother,” said Genevieve, softly; 
“ you make my heart ache. What should I do with- 
out you ?” 

“ You ask that ? Girl, don’t be silly. I should be 
a great burden gone ; everybody would think so — say 
so, perhaps. I’ve a little common sense, child.” She 
leaned back heavily in the great chair. 

“ Jenny I” 

“ Well, mother ?” Miss Genevieve had seated her- 
self on the other side of the fire. 

“ I never saw you look so well ; the fire gives color 
to your face. Jenny, you just missed being a beauty, 
didn’t you ?” 

“ Perhaps, mother and she said it with a smile. 

“I don’t know but it’s a curse to love beauty so 


UP IN GRANDT NORMANDY^ S ROOM. 183 

SO well. I’m glad, on the whole, that you weren’t a 
beauty, child ; for then you would have left me, like 
the rest, all adone, all alone.” 

‘‘ No, mother ; don’t say that.” 

‘‘ 1 say you would,” was the stern rejoinder. ‘‘ Who 
is down-stairs ?” 

Only the girls.” 

“ What are they doing?” 

Chatting and fancy work. They seemed to be 
enjoying themselves.” 

“ That’s very well ; but no theatricals remember.” 

O no ; I’m sure they don’t think of such a thing.” 

“ I hope not ; but girls now-a-days do think of every 
thing, and fancy themselves geniuses. There’s that 
little rowdy, Bessy. That girl shakes my nerves ter- 
ribly. Ah ! but the time goes slow.” 

“ Shall I read to you, mother ?” asked Miss Gene- 
vieve. 

“ No. How cold it is !” 

“ It is snowing, I think,” said Miss Genevieve, lay- 
ing a Cashmere shawl over her mother’s shoulders* 

“ I am sorry you invited that girl, Genevieve. I 
can’t get over that horrible piece of news.” 

‘‘ But you wished it yourself, mother.” 

‘‘ She had better go away,” was the rejoinder. 

“ O no, mother, not after we have invited her so 
cordially ! It would be almost an insult.” 

“ Her father’s child is an insult to me !” exclaimed 
the woman. ‘‘ I should think she would go of her 
own accord.” 

“ She would if she knew you wished it ; she has 


1 84 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T. 

enough of the Normandy spirit for that. But remem- 
ber, slie is your own grandchild, mother.” 

She is not ; I disown her utterly. While I live, 
I will be mistress of my own house;” and the stormy 
old woman bent forward, looking fixedly and gloomily 
into the fire. “ When I am gone, do as you please, do 
as you please.” 

These words touched Miss Genevieve. If her 
mother spoke of her own death a hundred times a 
day, it would always grieve her. Long servitude had 
made her nervous and sensitive. But she determined 
in her own mind, that her niece should not be turned 
out of the house. She would watch keenly that no 
note found its way, written in grandy’s cramped, old- 
fasluoned characters, where it might make desolate 
an already sorrowful heart. 

Just then, a clear, harmonious voice sounded through 
the hail. Mrs. Clute was just bringing in the gruel. 

What’s that ?” cried grand}^, leaning forward ; O 
Heavenly Father, has she come back ! My drops, 
Jenny! Stop that singing! stop it, unless you wish 
to see me die before your eyes ! I am in misery! I 
am in torment !” And still the voice floated up. 

That tune ! the very one she sang ; and I never 
saw her, even in her coflSn ! Jenny! Jenny! lam 
dying.” 

‘‘ For a moment, it did seem as if her words were 
true. Genevieve, distracted, flew from remedy to 
remedy ; Mrs. Clute, as we have seen, hurried down- 
stairs. It was more than an hour before the invalid 
could compose her nerves sufficiently to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


^‘WHAT DOES THE WORD ‘RELIGIOUS’ MEAN?” 

^ T 7E can’t sing ; I’m tired of knitting ; we shall 
V V have no company now, it’s past nine. Let’s 
go np-stairs and tell stories. We’ll sit all in a row ; 
it’s snugger up there than it is here. Some way, Pat’s 
talk has made me nervous. That child laid here in 
her coffin : so have all the generations of Normandies. 
Do let’s go, quick !” 

We rang for Pat to put out the fire, and, talking in 
whispers, scurried through the long hall leading up- 
stairs, and to the bedroom. Sally was there, in cap 
and apron ; and she made haste to light the candles, 
for she had been sitting knitting by the firelight. I 
had noticed Pat making a sign to Bessy, and detain- 
ing her for a moment. As soon as Sally could be sent 
away, Bessy turned to us, laughing. 

“ I’ve got something to show you, girls,” she said, 
looking very mysteriously around. “ Pat kept me a 
moment, you know;— well, he gave me something, 
and it’s to be a ‘sacret,’ so don’t any of you tell. It's 
in a ‘ na,te ’ piece of buckskin, too, and even sewed up 
for fear of the eyes of her— that’s grandy, you know. 
He thinks it’s as much as his place is worth ; and it 
was done ‘ by a foreign chap with a shelebrated name.’ 
Now, — have I roused 3^our curiosity sufficiently?” 

“ I can answer for myself,” said Nanny, pulling 


1 86 GRAND MO THER NORM AND T, 

clown her hair, which hung in charming curls ; ‘‘and 
I’m quite sure Cousin Ada is dying to know what in 
the world you have got.” 

“Oh, it’s a miniature, old style, and must have 
cost lots of money to be painted by so celebrated a 
painter ; — for you see it was taken in Paris ; — and the 
rim is all set with pearls and just the tiniest diamonds 
you ever saw. He was cleaning out an old trunk in 
the stable, and he found it just thrown there as if it 
were a thing of no worth. Attention ! young ladies. 
There, now you may admire it.” 

We both crowded nearer, for Bessy was polishing 
the glass ; and I unconsciously caught her by the 
arm, for I never was so much astonished in my life. 

“ I didn’t know there were two of them !” I cried. 

“ Bless me, child, you’ve made a black-and-blue 
spot !” exclaimed Bessy, rubbing her arm. “ What’s 
the matter with her ? her face is a study.” 

By this time, I had recovered my composure, and 
said, as calmly as I could : — ■ 

“ It was natural I should be surprised. That is 
the miniature of Cousin Philip taken when he was 
nineteen, for his mother, fourteen years ago, by a 
French artist who had just received the prize of 
Rome, and has since become distinguished. I’ve 
seen the original, — or else this is the original and 
I’ve seen the copy, — many and many a time. Cousin 
Philip keeps it in a little ebony box on his bureau. 
I used often to take it out, chiefly, I am afraid, be- 
cause I admired the frame.” 

“ Cousin Ada Stewart,” said Bessy, solemnly, “ are 


“ WHAT DOES ^RELIGIOUS ’ MEAN 187 


you aware of the importance of what you have just 
said ?” 


Well, I can say it again if you think it is not suf- 
ficiently circumstantial,” I remarked. 

And this Cousin Philip is a bachelor ?” 

Yes ; thirty three or four years old.” 

“ She don’t take yet,” said Bessy, unconscious of 
the slang. ‘‘ Did your cousin never speak to you of 
Miss Genevieve Normandy ? — how he loved, wooed, 
and almost won her ; but that her mother forbidding 
the nuptials. Miss Jenny, like an obedient little girl, 
preferred to stay with nurse and be domineered over 
by her mother, our venerable grandmother up-stairs.” 

What ! was it Aunt Genevieve ?” The light 
burst upon me all at once. I was bewildered ; and 
yet I saw it all. Aunt Genevieve’s sudden emotion 
at mention of his name, her curious glances that I 
remembered now. I had blundered like this before, 
I, who prided myself on my ability to read character. 
Twice had I been foiled, once by one of the purest, 
and once by one of the basest, women I had ever 
known. And yet I had never heard the name of my 
aunt in connection with Cousin Philip. Even my 
mother had not spoken of it to me : she had only said 
that he had been very deeply disappointed, and it had 
influenced his life. I felt so strangely about it, as if 
I held the future of two lives in my hand ; for who 
could tell for what good purpose I had been sent to 
Cummingford ? 

‘‘ I dare say poor Aunt Genevieve put the minia- 
ture away for good in a trunk ; and, without her 


1 88 GRAND MO THER NORM AND Y, 

knowledge, the trunk was taken out of the house* 
Grandy might have found it, you know : she wouldn’t 
like to destroy it, but thought it would never come to 
light again ; for the hay was thrown over the trunk. 
Well, well, wonders will never cease! Is Cousin 
Philip as handsome as this ?” 

“ Indeed,” I said, “ he is much handsomer. He 
was a boy then ; now he is a man. I wish you could 
see him.” 

“ I wish I could,” she said, thoughtfully. No 
wonder he declined to come to Ruby Hall. I heard 
he had promised never to come till Aunt Jenny sent 
for him. Poor little Aunt Jenny! She isn’t a bit 
like me ; I couldn’t do it.” 

“ O yes you could, if it was your duty,” said Nancy. 

Bessy shook her head. 

“It seems to me I couldn’t,” she said; “I’m so 
impetuous. Mamma has made it a life-work to cure 
me, she says. I was so queer as a child ; I remember 
myself so perfectly — a regular little outlaw, hating 
rr.lcs, hating work, study, school, full of fun and fury. 
I know people think me a light-headed, volatile girl. 
I wish they could have seen me then — a regular bun- 
dle of contradictions, doing and saying things that 
struck horror to all who happened to hear or see me. 
But mother never gave up hope; she made rules that 
I was forced in some way to obey ; and I never knew 
lier to be so angry as when a visitor said one day, — 

“ ‘ That child will make your heart ache when she 
grows up.’ 

“ ‘ She has made my heart ache many times al- 


“ WHAT DOES ^ RELIGIOUS^ MEAN r 189 

ready,’ said my mother; ‘but, when she grows up, 
she will take care that I shall be proud of her.’ 

“ I don’t know but that was the turning-point. I 
never forgot it. I had made my mother’s heart ache 
many a time. ‘ Her heart shall never ache any more,’ 
I kept saying to myself. Now only suppose if mamma 
had acquiesced, as some mothers do, and had shown 
no faith in me ! I don’t suppose she knows to this 
day what her words did for me. And, as to fun, I 
do love it ; I can’t help it. 1 take it naturally from 
my father, who is a born jester. Grandy thinks I’m 
awful — calls me a rowdy, and even says I’m not a 
Christian. I don’t know ; I believe I am quite as 
good a Christian as she is : that’s not saying much, is 
it, girls ? Don’t laugh at me ; I do try to be a Chris- 
tian — ^my mother’s daughter could hardly help that. 
And, since Ada has come, I’ve been reading my Bi- 
ble. I got all by myself this morning, and says I, 
‘ I’ll just read five verses to begin with.’ 

“ Why, girls, before I knew it, almost, I had fin- 
ished five chapters. I never read any thing so inter- 
esting in all my life. Talk of novels ! Just now I’d 
rather read the Bible than any novel I ever heard of. 
Somehow it has always been a sealed book to me until 
now ; and you are really religious,” she said, turning 
to me ; “ what does the word mean ? Give me your 
version.” 

“ It means to me,” I said, “ so far as I have got, to 
put every thing into the hands of God.” 

“ Well, yes; let me see. You’re to have no will 
of your own then. That would make me a nonen- 
tity.” 


190 


GRANDMOTHER NORM AND T. 


“ But, if God knows best, and His will is best, and 
He will guide you just right and give you all you need 
to make life pleasant, and many things that you want, 
don’t you see you get rid of all the care ?” 

Bessy laughed heartily. 

“ Isn’t it a selfish little puss ? But then, we have 
all illustrated that very thing, as children. If our 
little wills only went the way that mother’s did, how 
happy we were ! And what care had we for the mor- 
row ! and how sure we were of sympathy and comfort 
and food and clothes and guidance ! Yes, I guess 
Cousin Ada Stewart has hit it. Grown up, we must 
be as little children in order to be Christians. Well, 
Avell, I can’t follow it out, only that I know it will 
end gloriously. I couldn’t be an Infidel ; maybe I 
haven’t brains enough to reason out things contrary 
to my inclinations. Queer as I was when a child, I 
used to want to die and go to Heaven ; and I held 
daily talks with an angel I called ‘ Saspy,’ who, I im- 
agined, came down from the good Lord’s garden every 
day to talk to me. But, come, I think I’ve run on 
long enough about myself. Let’s sit in a row before 
the fire ; and I’ll take down my hair, and you can tell 
us a story. Cousin Ada, or something about Paris — 
beautiful Paris !” 

A long, low howl under our window sounded just 
then, and seemed to freeze the very marrow of my 
bones. 

Grandy will die now, surely,” said Bessy, ‘‘ if she 
hears that. Nothing troubles her so much as the 
howl of a dog. There it is again ! It curdles my 


“ WHA T DOBS ^RELIGIOUS ’ MEAN 191 

blood. I’m going to look out, though and she 
lifted the sash. The snowflakes, whirled by the 
wind, sifted into the room.^ 

“ There’s something white down there,” she said, 
breathlessly ; “ and it lifted itself as I opened the 
vflndow. It can’t be a wolf, can it ?” 

White, did you say ?” I cried, getting up from 
the rug. 

“ Yes, a white thing wagging a tail; I don’t know 
what it is.” 

A vague suspicion flitted through my brain ; I grew 
hot and then cold at the thought. Going to the win- 
dow, I called, softly, — 

‘‘ Blossom ! Blossom !” 

The creature sprang up, and then I knew his yelp. 
I turned round, crying and laughing together. 

It’s Blossom ! it’s my great, beautiful darling ! 
He has followed me ; he has found me. O girls, 
what shall I do ?” 

‘‘Blossom, the Newfoundland? Wh}^ where has 
he come from ?” asked Bessy, incredulously. “ You 
can’t mean it ; — then I say let’s have him up. Glori- 
ous ! what fun ! what a dog ! Hurry, or Pat will be 
out to see what it means, and he might hurt him.” 

Down we went, regardless of the weather, each girl 
carrying a candle. My heart was beating high with 
anticipation. I could not be mistaken : was ever hu- 
man friend more faithful ! How we unbarred the side 
door, I never knew. All I was fully conscious of was, 
that I was covered with snow and wet, cold paws; 
that it was Blossom ; that he danced a Highland fling 


192 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


all over me ; that Mrs. Clute stood crjdng in the hall, 
thinking Satan had come, sure ; and that Pat, trying 
to frown with the laugh shining through, cried, 
“Whist! whist I” a good deal louder than Blossom’s 
loving whine; and the housekeeper supplemented : — 

“ Whatever you’ll do with him, I don’t know ; for 
the old lady hates dogs. Ye’ll have to keep him 
mighty close.” 

“ I wonder if she loves any thing,” said Bessy, as 
she, Nancy, Blossom, and I followed each other up- 
stairs, I trying to hold Blossom’s mouth. But the 
sagacious fellow did not need even a hint. He never 
spoke till safely sheltered before the blazing fire. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 


Bessy’s visit to grandy. 

^^T^LOSSOM, how did you get here?” I asked, 
I J looking him straight in his lovely brown 
eyes. “ Did some one send you, or did you come 
yourself?” 

‘‘ He came himself,” said Bessy, fondly stroking the 
curling hair ; you might know he did. Look how 
thin he is, poor fellow ! And what an anxious, wor- 
ried expression his poor face carries ! And, above all, 
how supremely happy and contented he is !” 

Blossom sprang to his feet, looking earnestly at the 
door. It opened ; and, to our surprise, in came Pat- 
rick, with chicken bones — actually, chicken bones — 
and a pitcher of milk. 

‘‘ It’s all we could lay hands on, miss ; we’d ’a’ 
baked him something nicer if it hadn’t been too late. 
Sure, and doesn’t he sit at table, like Christian 
folk?” 

“ I dare say he would if he wasn’t half starving,” 
said Bessy, as Pat’s twinkling eyes turned towards 
her ; but a starving dog can’t wait for the table to be 
laid, can you. Blossom ?” To which Blossom made an- 
swer by eating ravenously, and drinking every drop 
of the delicious milk. Then, with a deep-drawn sigh 
of perfect contentment, he stretched himself outside 
the fender. 

13 


194 


GRANDMOTHER NO R HAND T, 


You’ll have to share him with us, cousin,” said 
Bessy, crouching down beside him, so that the light . 
made her hair look one mass of gold. ‘‘ I wonder if 
he has a mission to fulfill.” 

‘‘ Look out, if grandy sees him,” said Nancy. 

She shan’t touch him ; and don’t forget that I in- 
tend to take grandy on my shoulders.” 

“You’ll never get her off,” laughed Nanny; “re- , 
member Sinbad ! Poor old grandmother ! there’s 
something so sad in her very stateliness, so pathetic i 
even in her anger. I’m sure, if we only knew how, i 
we might get at her heart.” 

“ I’m going for her head,” said Bessy ; “ I shall | 
reason with her.” ' 

The idea of Bessy’s reasoning made us laugh. 

“ It won’t do to be timid, and afraid of grandy,” ' 
said Bessy, oracularly. “ She likes to see spirit, es- 
pecially in a Normandy ; and she must be made to 
feel her injustice. Think of her refusal to see our 
dear little cousin, Ada Stewart ! Why, it’s an awful 
•spirit.” I 

“ I am afraid I am rather more at my ease not to 
see her,” I said. “ Of course I’ve no particular love | 
for her ; she disowned my mother. It is better as it 
is, for both of us.” 

“ What ! better for grandy to cherish that blind 
hate ? No, no ; not if I read my Bible to any purpose. 
Grandy must be brought to reason. And, as to this 
glorious fellow, he shall stay and share our triumph. 
Do you believe he followed you all the way ? I have 
heard such things. How he must love you ! That’s 


BESSr^S VISIT TO GRAND T, 


195 


true love ; and dogs are way ahead of human beings 
sometimes.” 

So Blossom slept inside the door, as he had always 
done at home ; and I felt as if a part of Hollyhoxy 
was here at Ruby Hall, and rested sweetly and se- 
curely. Why should I trouble my brains as to how 
he had found me? he had found me, and that was 
triumph enough. 

The next day was grandly white and pure and still. 
Such a snowstorm ! Blinding, furious, and fast it had 
come down all night, whirled by the wind in a thou- 
sand eddies, drifting up the hills, banking in the 
house. 

Hurrah, girls !” cried Bessy, sitting up in bed, 
while Blossom flew to the window, and leaned his 
great paws on the sill, “ here’s just such a storm as 
grandy likes — hurlyburly and bluster. Isn’t it flne ? 
Lucky, you nice fellow, that we heard you last night. 
I suppose he would have found a place of shelter, 
but maybe not. Blossom, you dear fellow, if you 
had frozen to death I should have cried at your fu- 
neral.” 

Sally came in with an armful of wood and a shovel- 
ful of coals. A moment later, and there was a fire 
that made one warm to look at. 

Sally, tell Pat we girls want a sleighride,” said 
Bessy. 

‘‘ Yes, miss ; he’ll be glad to take the horses out, I 
guess,” said the girl. 

‘‘ I want to have a splendid sleighride,” said Bessy; 
“ and then I want to go to Nurse Dimple’s, and buy her 


196 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

out. Just think how she took in that sweet child, 
and cared for her. Let’s carry just as much money 
as we can, and clear that old window. I’m rather 
tired of the candy and that doleful doll. There isn’t 
much variety in ginger-cakes, but she will bake some 
fresh ones for new comers. How her old face will 
shine ! and I mean to kiss her if I have a chance.” 

After breakfast, we had Pat in the parlor to talk 
about the ride. He thought the roads too heavy ; 
and, after a little consideration, we agreed, that, as 
it would be moonlight and there was a chance of clear 
weather, we would wait till evening. Then Aunt 
Genevieve came down, and began so sweetly to apolo- 
gize for grandy. 

I thought it was your voice, my dear ; but mother 
was very nervous, and the housekeeper had irritated 
her in some way — and so you won’t mind, will you ?” 

I could hardly answer, as I looked at her in the 
light of my newly acquired knowledge. Here was 
the woman that should have been Cousin Philip’s 
wife, who might yet be — yes, who must be ! Her pa- 
tient eyes should smile again with happy thoughts, 
her lips be dumb and sealed no longer. 

You won’t mind, will you ?” I echoed the same 
words ; for at that moment Blossom burst in, fresh 
from a run out of doors. Aunt Jenny gave a little 
cry, looking at me helplessly. 

Did you ever see such a splendid fellow !” cried 
Bessy. ‘‘ He has come all the way from Ada’s home. 
Nobody sent him. Isn’t he a noble fellow ?” 

He certainly is a beautiful dog ; but — ” 


BESS 2 VISIT TO GRANDT. 


197 


‘‘ Cousin Philip gave him to me,” I ventured, stoop- 
ing a little, and not daring to meet her eye, though I 
caught Bessy’s. When I lifted my head, there was a 
faint color in Aunt Genevieve’s cheek, and a peculiar 
expression in her glance. 

‘‘ I was thinking of mother,” she said; “ it worries 
her to hear a dog bark.” 

‘‘ But he don’t bark,” said Bessy ; ‘‘ and I am sure 
if she can endure that horrible tortoise-shell cat she 
keeps up-stairs, she ought not to object to this splen- 
did fellow. She needn’t even know it.” 

“ Very well, you must take the responsibility then,” 
said Aunt Genevieve, half laughing ; but I noticed 
that her fingers trembled when she patted Blossom on 
the head, and that he absolutely fawned upon her, 
like a great overgrown baby. That made me glad 
and pleased her. 

An hour later, a message came for Bessy. Grandy 
wished her to come up-stairs. 

“ It makes me cold, girls. I’ve got a chill at the 
very thought. What can it be ? She has found out 
about the dog, as sure as you live. Well, I must take 
the chances of war and Bessy threw off her apron 
and smoothed down her hair as she added: “I feel as 
if this court-martial was going to decide against me, 
and I’m almost sure I shall do something dreadful ; I 
always do. If she gives me a scolding. I’ll take the 
first train for home.” 

Shall we escort you to the door ?” asked Nanny. 

‘‘ No ; I’ll face the peril by myself ; but I’m very 
sure she’s going to say that Blossom must be sent 


198 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

away, or that we’ve all staid here long enough, or 
something equally hateful. Well, good-bye, girls; 
if you never see me again, remember that I died in a 
good cause and, so saying, Bessy dashed into the 
cold, gloomy hall. She went reluctantly up-stairs. 
The door was open. Bessy drew one long breath — 
she told me afterwards that it was like entering the 
cage of a royal Bengal tiger. 

Presently she found herself face to face with her 
grandmother. The old lady sat by the window in 
her great armchair, enveloped in shawls, actually 
looking out upon the snow-covered landscape. 

Bessy said that her heart was beating almost hard 
enough to be heard, but all that grandy said was, — 

“ Good-morning, my dear. I don’t often send for 
you so early; but my poor old cat is sick, and Jenny 
told me you had some skill in doctoring animals.” 

Exactty what happened after this speech, Bessy 
never could remember ; onl}^ that, between laughing 
and trying not to laugh, she approached nearer to a 
fit of hysterics than she ever did in her life before, and 
that even Aunt Genevieve was frightened, and held 
the smelling-salts to her nose. The culmination came 
when grandy gravely asked her if she was subject to 
such attacks. 

“ I think — if I could go out in the air,” said Bessy, 
convulsively, — ‘‘ if you will excuse me for a minute 
or two — ” and Nanny and I found her quite doubled 
up at the foot of the stairs, laughing, with the tears 
running down her cheeks. 

‘‘ Girls, I can’t stop ! I can’t get my breath. Shake 


BESS2^^S VISIT TO GRAND T, 


199 


me, somebody ! What do you think she wanted 
and then followed another interval of laughter. . “ She 
— she — wanted — me — to — prescribe — for — a — sick — 
cat : and I trembling with an awful fear that she was 
going to eat me up, or something of the sort.” 

By this time, we had her in the parlor, where she 
dropped again ; and the contagion was irresistible. 
We sat down and laughed, too, while Blossom, in 
great anxiety, ran about, and poked his nose in our 
faces, each in turn. Of course we begged her to 
stop. 

I can’t ; I can’t ! I shall see grandy’s face — and 
the old red window-curtain — and the snow — and the 
cat — there, I’ve done and she threw up the rich, 
yellow plaits of hair that had fallen down, and pinned 
them in place, every now and then shaking with sup- 
pressed mirth. 

‘‘ What will grandy think ? She’ll think I’m sub- 
ject to fits ; oh, dear, dear ! Well, on the whole it’s 
refreshing — a sort of shaking up. Give me my writ- 
ing-desk, Nanny ; I’ll tell her to give poor Tibby 
some catnip. I thought everybody knew enough for 
that.” 

In due course of time, the note was sent up-stairs, 
and Pat dispatched for the catnip. The day passed 
drearily enough. Pat guessed there wouldn’t be any 
letters till to-morrow : snow had delayed the trains, 
he said. We took Aunt Jenny into confidence con- 
cerning the sleighride. She thought it was all very 
well, if we could get off without making too much 
noise. We had all written letters, which we were to 


200 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


drop in the grocery store, one corner of which was 
the post-office. Pat shoveled paths, and cleaned the 
sleigh ; and Mrs. Clute hunted up a couple of old 
foot-stoves, for the weather was very cold, though it 
was only the end of October, 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A SLEIGHRIDE AND NURSE DIMPLE. 

T seven o’clock, Pat drew np to the side en- 



trance with a superb pair of grays, the pride 
of grandy’s heart. The Normandy horses were all 
blooded : it seemed almost a sin to put any of them 
before a plough. 

The air was clear and cold, the sky a brilliant study, 
the moon came out calm and white ; and I forgot all 
trouble as I listened to the even steps of the horses 
upon the road. Away we went, mile after mile, the 
white wonder of nature silvering mountain, forest, 
and valley, up hill and down ; and, coming back, drew 
near the corner grocery, whose yellow light fell from 
windows and door, laying bars of shadow upon the 
trampled, snowy area in front. 

Our letters deposited, ‘‘Head the horses for the 
‘ deacon’s relict,’ ” said Bessy. 

“ All right and Pat drew up there in good style, 
laughing. 

We saw the widow’s cap on the window-shade. 
First it looked sideways and twinkled, then it looked 
down, jumped up, and disappeared. 

We girls all went in together, and asked for every 
thing we could think of from candy to cookies. 

There was candy boiling inside, she said. Couldn’t 
we go in and see her make it ? Of course we could. 


202 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


Once inside her tiny kitchen, we made ourselves at 
home. Bessy bought out the window, I bought out 
a basket full of mittens and aprons and miscellaneous 
things, and Nancy bought every bit of worsted there 
was in the shop. Meantime, the candy was done, 
pulled on a wooden pin, manufactured into lolypops. 
There was not much of it : and we instantly took the 
whole stock. 

“ I’ve always did for myself,” she said, growing con- 
fidential as we counted out the silver, ‘‘though the 
deacon left me forehanded ; but you know we old 
New England folks believe in work. It saves a deal 
of rust, and keeps one hearty and happy.” 

“ And you have done for others, also,” said Bessy, 
giving her pretty head a knowing toss. “ There was 
a little girl that came all the way from the old coun- 
try ; and, when her own cast her out, you took her 
in.” 

“Ah! the dear lamb,” said Nurse Dimple, with a 
queer contraction of the firm little mouth ; “ she was 
as like that one yonder” — nodding at me — “ as two 
peas. I saw the stage bring her, with the forlorn lit- 
tle hair trunk strapped on behind. It was an awful 
night that she came here. They’ve told me that they 
didn’t know it, up to the great house ; and I guess 
they didn’t. 

“ ‘ I’ve come all the w^ay from England,’ she said ; 
‘ and you are my mother’s old nurse : and I pray you 
to take me in for a night or two ; I can’t stay where 
they don’t want me.’ 

“ Down on my knees I went. I saw it in her 


A SLEIGHRIDE AND NURSE DIMPLE, 203 


blessed face, that she was Hatty Normandy’s child, 
that poor beautiful creeter. And, when she told 
me they were both dead, mother and father — ” here 
Nurse Dimple drew out a red silk handkerchief, and 
dried her ej^es, and fumbled for her spectacles. 

Here’s my Bible, dears,” she continued, taking 
the much-worn volume from her table ; ‘‘ that’s where 
I writ her name, Etta Dimple ; for I took her for my 
own, and, if the Lord had pleased to let her stay with 
me, she’d been a-living now ; for it was coldness killed 
her, and she couldn’t live, poor lamb, and know how 
her grandmother felt towards her.” 

Mrs. Dimple, would you mind if I kissed you ?” 
asked Bessy, in a subdued voice. 

“ Kissed me ? laws, no, deary ; I’ve handled your 
father till he was a boy grown ; for I nursed all the 
Normandies. Come aiid kiss me, child.” 

So we all kissed her, and received a hug apiece ; 
and Nurse Dimple told me how pretty a child my 
own mamma was, and how gentle and obedient. 

Not to say the old lady hain’t had heaps o’ trou- 
ble,” she added, after wiping her eyes again. ‘‘ She 
did jest worship her handsome children ; and it was 
terrible to have ’em go agin her. Don’t be too hard 
on her. You’re young and high in spirits ; she’s old 
and wore out. I know something what that is. I 
don’t enjoy the warming-pan no more, — though I 
never used it myself, believing in hardness, — and two 
cups and saucers is more social than one, to say noth- 
ing of the pleasure of seeing a pretty face opposite. 
I wish I could ’a’ kept her ; but the Lord’s will be 


204 GRAND MO THER NORM AND Y. 

done ! She’s where there ain’t no worriting, and in 
better keeping than mine.” 

‘‘ Isn’t she the dearest old dear ?” said Bessy, as 
we climbed into the sleigh, and Pat put our purchases 
in after us. Now you see what a difference there is 
in grandmothers.” 

Nurse Dimple never had a chick nor a child,” put 
in Pat, sententiously. 

“Well,” said Bessy, lucidly, “she’s somebody’s 
grandmother — or, at least, she ought to be.” 

Our ride home was a merry one. Sally was in wait- 
ing, with the door open, and ready to take our wraps. 
The chairs, sofas, tables, were drawn around the lire, 
inside the great yellow silk screen ; and we gave Sally 
the most of our purchases, to her great delight. 

“ Pat, you’re a jewel !” exclaimed Bessy, as that per- 
sonage appeared with a loaded tray. “ How did you 
know I was hungry ?” 

“ I thought a bit of chicken and a salad would be 
refreshing after the work you’ve done this night, 
miss,” said Pat, pulling at a lock of his red hair, and 
grinning. 

“ Shall we have letters to-morrow?” 

“ No doubt of it, miss.” 

“ Because I’m expecting a large mail from China 
or Africa. You needn’t laugh. Cousin Ada Stewart : 
when I’m at home, I live in China ; and, when I’m 
at Uncle Will’s, I. consider myself in Africa. Both 
of them are awfully benighted places. Where is Blos- 
som ?” 

“ Sure, I haven’t seen him,” said Pat. 


A SLEIGHRIDE AND NURSE DIMPLE, 205 

“ Did he go out when we started for our sleighride, 
girls ? did anybody notice, I wonder I asked. 

No, nobody had noticed ; even I at that moment 
had been thoughtless enough to forget Blossom. 

We looked through the hall ; Pat, as he went out 
to take care of the horses, searched carefully in the 
yard and on the premises : but no Blossom was to be 
found. We. could all remember when we had seen 
him last — just before tea. 

‘‘ Blossom just paid you a visit, like a genteel, well- 
bred dog,” said Bessy ; ‘‘ and he has gone back to 
see Cousin Philip, and whisper a word in his ear, in- 
stead of the traditional little bird,” she ran on. I’m 
very sorry ; it was delightful to feel that he stood be- 
tween us and danger : but don’t worry, Cousin Ada ; 
he’ll return to his first love.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


Bridget’s letter from hollyhoxy. 

I N the morning, Pat met us with a most terrific 
leer. Evidently something of prime importance 
had happened ; but he waited to be questioned. As 
usual, Bessy was the first speaker. 

‘‘ You all look like a funeral here,” she said, over 
her smoking chocolate. ‘‘ Mrs. Clute, more hot milk, 
if you please ; you know I like it the color of rich 
cream. Well, Pat, what is it ?” 

Sure, an’ it’s loike to have a funeral we might ’a’ 
been,” said Pat, solemnly. “ If it hadn’t ’a’ been for 
your dog, the Lord knows who’d ’a’ been alive this 
morning.” 

I started from my seat. 

“ Then you found Blossom ?” 

“ Kape cool. Miss Stewart, if you plaze,” he said, 
with exasperating dignity ; Blossom was in the house 
all night.” 

“ Where, pray ?” 

‘‘ Guarding a prisoner, sure, good luck to him !” 
We all looked stupidly across the table to where 
Pat stood, his visage a perplexity as unsolvable as his 
language. 

‘‘ Why don’t ye tell it out in plain English, boy?” 
queried Mrs. Clute, turning round from the tray on 
which smoked coffee, tea, and chocolate. ‘‘ The fact 


BRID GET^S LE TTER FR OM HOLE THOXT. 207 

is the man’s head is turned ; and it’s hardly a won- 
der, for no bugglar did ever I think to git through a 
keyhole, yet this one did.” 

“ Burglars !” cried Bessy ; ‘‘if they get into this 
house we are lost, for there isn’t a key that will fit 
our door. Pat, go get a locksmith directly. You 
don’t mean to say a burglar got in here !” 

“Well, not edjactly a burglar, miss,” put in Pat, 
anxious not to be defrauded of his share of the dis- 
covery ; “ and we can’t find out however it was. It 
was Mad Jack, from the workhouse a mile away ; and 
bad enough he is, as well as mad. I’d gone to the 
woodhoLise this morning, and come in, whin I thought 
I heered a growl. Thinks I to mysilf, ‘ That’s the 
dog ; an’ he’s come back afore he’s gone away, sure.’ 
So I follered the sound ; and, out through the wing, 
in the summer kitchen, I come upon Mad J ack, sure, 
wid a wound or two, an’ the dog jist kaping guard 
over him, as loikely enough he’d been doing that same 
all the night through. The poor beastie didn’t come 
off widout a little blood-letting, neidther.” 

“ Oh, then Blossom is hurt !” 

“ It’s on’y a thrifle, miss ; an’ I fixed him up wid a 
plaister o’ linimint. He’s not hurt bad at all, as you’ll 
see. Faix, an’ the poor crater — the man — begged jist 
piteous to be let away ; but I wasn’t such a fool. Ses 
I, ‘ Howld on, me good fellow !’ — to the dog ; — ‘ doan’t 
ye take yer eyes offon him till I come back ;’ an’ howld 
on he did till I took horse and got the authorities, an’ 
by this time the rascal’s at headquarters, bad luck to 
him ! He’d always a dislike to th’ ould mistress be- 


2o8 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


cause she sint his son to the school for reformers, or 
somethin’ sich ; an’ I make no doubt there’d ’a’ been 
throuble afore mornin’, if it hadn’t been for that gin- 
tleman of a dog, good luck to him /” 

“ Dear old Blossom !” I said, from my full heart. 

‘‘ Well, here is a sensation !” said Bessy; ‘‘ we have 
slept all night with a madman in the house. How 
did he get in ?” 

“ That’s what I’ve asked myself a hundred times,” 
said Mrs. Clute, with a preternaturally solemn visage. 
‘‘ Could he widen the cracks or stretch the keyholes^ 
I’d not wonder at all ; but it’s the chimney he must 
’a’ come down, or else digged under the foundations 
of the house.” 

Nancy suggested that he might have slipped in 
while we were going out for the sleighride ; but Mrs. 
Clute protested, that she had stood by the door all 
the time, and not a soul had entered. 

“Lots of souls might enter,” said Bessy; “you 
couldn’t stop them. What do you think, girls — 
should Aunt Genevieve be told ?” 

“ Not for worlds, my dears,” said Mrs. Clute. “I’ll 
take the responsibility of holding my tongue.” 

“ I wish you would take the responsibility of hold- 
ing mine,” said Bessy. “ It’s too much for me ; it’s 
beginning to itch this minute. Such a romantic, aw- 
ful, dangerous thing, and not be allowed to tell it ! 
Well, what shall we give Blossom? He ought to 
have a collar of gold at the least, and he shall.” 

“ With our three names engraved upon it,” said 
Nanny. 


BRIDGET'S LETTER FROM HOLLTHOXT. 209 

“Exactly: there won’t be any danger of Cousin 
Ada’s forgetting us while Blossom lives. And we’ve 
got a rod to hold over grandy too. If she objects to 
the dog, we’ll prove triumphantly that she owes her 
life to him. I should like to see her turn him out of 
doors then.” 

“ Where is Blossom, Pat ?” I asked, rising in all 
the pride of possession. Pat went out in the hall ; 
and Blossom was presently in our midst, and received 
our congratulations very modestly, only there was a 
wound on his chest that he seemed anxious to dis- 
pense with. 

The postman’s beU sent us all into the great haU. 
Never was sight more welcome than the fur cap, Ro- 
man nose, and red-mittened fingers of Ezekiel Post, 
rightly named. 

Three letters for me ; and as many for Bessy and 
Nanny. Have you ever seen three happy girls with 
their hands full of news from home, and their hearts 
beating high with anticipation ? The bouyancy of 
youth, how it overleaps all contingences and over- 
looks all trial ! I pored over every envelope, reading 
them three or four times. 

That is from Cousin Philip ; here Bridget’s labori- 
ously composed “ litter.” Dear, honest heart, what 
did I care that she wrote me, “ Adjeline Stewit,” and 
commenced it with a “ Deer gull ”! 

The other letter — I turned it over and over. The 
bold, finely cut letters, the large, strong hand ! Had 
Doctor Henry really taken the pains to bestow any 
time and thought on the poor girl, who, in her dis- 
traction, first found help in his counsels ? (14) 


210 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


“ Now let’s hold a Quaker meeting,” said Bessy, 
“ the first one who speaks to pay a fine of ten cents — 
I mean before the letters are read through. I have a 
healthy conviction that my pocket-book will be the 
first one called on,” she added, sotto voce ; and so it 
v^as. 

I confess that I opened Bridget’s letter with some 
trepidation ; but, before I had read many lines, I felt 
the tears running down my cheeks. 

Now the Maister be gon,” she wrote, “ It’s You 
as we misses more and more. There be a goanness in 
the house as there be in the Stummak when One don’t 
be getting Reglar food. Mrs. Davis, she Be puttin on 
Airs with her Best gowns every day. She do wear her 
Hair so High, a lot of fals kirls, and acts alreddy like 
the Lady of the House, wich she Be wishing to Be, I 
don’t Dout. Mr. Stewit give me some Gold pieces 
before He went, wich sorrowful He looked, poor Man, 
and that women Shewed her good sense, wich I will 
Say that For her, in staying away till He had Gone. 
I Herd she met Him at the Rale way-station, but 
Doant Know. Any Rate, She is Back ; and She has 
taken your Room, and I haven’t No patience. Deer 
Child, Go to the Lord. I had a Dreme ; and I thought 
that Mr. Stewit and Miss Marthy stood on a High hill. 
And Thare was a Thunder-storm, and they stood with 
Their Hands joined together. And the Storm grew 
worse ; and a great Angel with Red wings Held the 
Litening like a two-Edged sword, and he Brought it 
down Betwene them. And, when I looked Again, 
there wasn’t nobody but The master Thare. 


BRIDGET'S LETTER FROM HOLLTHOXT, 21 1 


“ Now, Thare Signs. My mother was a grate 
Dremer, and what She dremed come’ true. And you 
rede in the Bible that men and women dremed — and 
ain’t That enuff? I Beleve m3^dreme Will come true, 
and Mar thy Voles will Never be mistress of Holly- 
hoxy.” 

Poor Bridget made a great mess of that last word. 
She went on to say, that my Cousin Philip came over 
quite often, and sometimes played on the piano, and 
he and her husband had replenished the hot-house, — 
that the minister had been there to see Mrs. Davis, 
and that that lady had high words and was very cross 
for a day or two afterwards, — that Martha Voles had 
a friend visiting her, and was making up piles of cot- 
ton stuff and seeing the dressmaker three days out of 
four, — that she had her meals carried up to her in the 
morning, — and that Mrs. Davis waited upon her like 
a slave, — and that it was her opinion the housekeeper 
had known her a good deal longer than I had. 

‘‘Nanny, it’s too bad! we’ve got to stay here all 
winter ; and that when I had just been laying plans 
to take Cousin Ada Stewart back with me to China, 
and had made such a match !” 

“Ten cents, if you please,” said Nancy, without' 
thinking, holding out her hand. I held my hand out 
silently. 

“See what a sly little puss she is!” said Bessy, 
laughing. “ You’ll get no ten cents out of her. Put 
your letter down a moment. Cousin Ada Stewart, 
while you listen to my doleful story ; for I must talk. 
Papa is going to the mines, having received some 


212 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


wonderfully good news about them ; and mamma ill I 
take the opportunity to go and visit Aunt Gunness ] 
in Indiana, I believe. She never pays me the com- 
pliment of asking me if I will go, but presumes I shall 
be very happy here. By this time, she is off on her 
journey, leaving those five precious boys to take care 
of themselves.” 

What are you going to do about it ?” asked 
Nancy. i 

“ Why, I have no choice in the matter ; and the un- 
kindest cut of all is, that the boys don^t want me. So 
here we must stay — no concerts, no parties, no new 
dresses; I think it’s awfully mean. Promise me,” — 
she appealed to Nancy, in a fit of the heroics, going 
down on her knees, — that you will stay as long as * 
I do.” 

“ Why, of course I will,” said matter-of-fact Nancy. ! 

“ That relieves my mind. Nanny, we’ll improve 
the time. Maybe it will do us good. We^l go home 
so changed that our most intimate friends won’t know 
us. We’ll renounce the pomps and vanities, for a sea- ! 
son at least ; and I’U go hunt up a Sunday-school class. ; 
You needn’t laugh ; I mean it. It will not hurt either ^ 
of us to take a class. Poor Mr. Harrison made such , 
an appeal to us last Sunday, that I almost decided 
then; but I’m so afraid I shall make the children 
laugh.” 

Is laughing such a deadly sin ?” asked Nancy. 

‘‘ Well, it might be,” said Bessy. ‘^It depends, I 
suppose, upon what one is laughing at.” 


CHAPTER XXXL 


PEARLS GLEANED FROM A LETTER. 

Y this time, I had come to Cousin Philipps letter. 



ij) He said he had advertised for Blossom, and 
hoped I had received the paper. He would soon 
know that I had found Blossom ; and I fancied I 
could see his sunny smile at the news. 

‘‘ Every thing seems going on very well at Holly- 
hoxy,” he wrote. ‘‘ Your father went off in better 
spirits than I have seen him for some time. He was- 
very cordial towards me, and seemed his noble self 
again. I ventured to speak to him upon a certaini 
matter; and, though he said little, I could see that 
his mind is materially enlightened since I last talked 
with him. 

I have since learned that he went, the day before 
he left, to your mother’s grave with a basket of fra- 
grant flowers. The cemetery keeper told me about 
it ; — for he also has heard the now current rumor ; — 
and he said that your father was there a full hour.” 

I could not help kissing the lines that filled me with, 
a new hope. 

Mrs. Davis I have seen once or twice. She fs; 
very guarded, both in speech and behavior,”' eontm- 
ued the letter. Martha Voles went to chuich last 
Sunday, and was no doubt commented upon freely. 
It seems that she is trjdng to gain a footing in soci- 


214 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


ety ; but people stand aloof. It is a pity that she 
should put herself in this trying and painful position. 
I took the liberty to hint to Mrs. Davis that it would 
be better taste for herself and Martha to move else- 
where, but made her very angry. Since then I have 
not seen her, and have not cared to. 

I hope your father has made choice of an honest 
and conscientious man for his agent ; but my mind 
misgives me in that particular. Mr. Clewes, it seems 
to me, is quite as much inclined to act the master, as 
Miss Martha Voles is the mistress, of Hollyhoxy. He 
is in town much of his time ; and I have heard his 
horse’s hoofs — he uses Trixy — on the road as late as 
two o’clock in the morning. In appearance, he is a 
gentleman ; but I fear his habits are not as polished 
as he would give us to believe. 

I hate to have such thoughts about people ; — it 
seems like debasing one’s self to speculate upon the 
foibles and follies of others ; — but then, what can be 
done ? I dare not avoid it. I must keep an eye on 
Hollyhoxy for your sake. It is looking very lovely, 
just touched by autumnal frosts. 

“ I have called once or twice to see your little 
t^ge,, Polly ; and the child seemed very grateful. She 
is now in full possession of her faculties again, but 
fading as a lily might fade. There is no hope of her 
life ; and her parents have come to see that it is for 
the best, and are quite reconciled. 

‘‘ Try to call to your mind a little episode that oc- 
curred during one of fay visits to the house. You re- 
member the coming of a poor sick man, whom Mrs. 


PEARLS GLEANED FROM A LETTER. 215 

Davis treated with great indignity, and charged with 
insanity? He is now so ill that he is confined to a 
room ill the hospital of the poorliouse ; and Mrs. Da- 
vis is certainly anxious for his well doing, for some 
reason of her own. Every day, and sometimes twite 
a day, she visits him ; and she has hired a nurse on 
purpose to attend him. Doctor Henry has twice been 
sent for, and twice been refused admission. He has 
no doubt but that the sick man is anxious to see him, 
but that his nurse and Mrs. Davis are determined that 
he shall not be admitted. This is very cruel, and the 
doctor feels it painfully. But he is always on the 
watch ; and, if the poor man does not die in the in- 
terim, I am quite sure he will see him yet. That 
there is some mj^stery connected with him, I have al- 
ways thought. 

I am looking with great interest for your letter, 
which will reach me by to-night’s mail. Meantime, 
I shall send this one immediately, knowing how sweet 
is news from home. I am so sorry about Blossom ! 
I heard from one of our teamsters, that such a dog 
was seen some ten miles west of this. Can it be that 
Blossom is on his way to find you ? Can he do it ? 
I doubt it, though I have heard wonderful stories of 
the sagacity of superior dogs. I send you a paper 
containing an advertisement for the runaway. Keep 
up your heart ; and, no matter what you have written 
me, write me a good long letter, about everybody you 
see^ and of all your goings-on, which I can imagine — 
three girls together — are none of the gravest. 

‘‘A week from next Wednesday is Hallowe’en, the 


2I6 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


31st of October. I shall think of my little cousin and 
our merry last year’s Hallowe’en fun.” 

‘‘ There is no disappointment in your letter, Cousin 
Ada Stewart ; I can see it in your face,” said Bessy. 

I shook my head. 

‘‘No ; this letter is from Cousin Philip,” I said. 

“ What a paragon Cousin Philip must be ! I believe 
I am getting to hate him,” laughed Bessy. “ I don’t 
like your goody-good men, anyway.” 

“ He is not ‘ goody good,’ as you mean it, perhaps,” 
I made haste to reply, “ unless you mean a wholesome, 
good, cleanly life. Cousin Philip is as full of fun as 
anybody ought to be ; and yet he is always thinking 
of others. He writes pamphlets for the people, and 
gives them away. He lectures on health, dietetics, 
and mechanics, as well as the Holy Land and ‘ Sights 
I Have Seen in Europe.’ And he plays on the flute 
and violin to perfection. I have heard that he might 
become a master on either.” 

“ Bless me !” said Bessy, “we must bring about a 
reconciliation with grandy immediately, if not sooner. 
I should so dearly love to call him Uncle Philip, and 
see that dear little soft-eyed woman happy ! But my 
purse will soon be depleted if I keep talking on. I 
see you have not read all j'our letters yet. I should 
like to know who writes such a splendid hand !” 

“ Oh this is from Doctor Henry,” I said, also admir- 
ing the Arm, well-curved letters ; and I opened the 
envelope with a feeling akin to reverence. Will my 
reader allow me to place some of the beautiful words 
which dropped from his pen^ here upon these pages ? 


PEARLS GLEANED FROM A LETTER. 


217 


If we never seek our place in life, we shall never 
find it. It grows up to us as we grow into it. 

“ Life wants no grander jewel for its crown than 
the noble sentiment of the nobler fact, ‘ I have glori- 
fied Thee on the earth ; I have finished the work Thou 
hast given me to do.’ 

While many a one is thinking what he would do 
if he had the means, or what he would like to do un- 
der certain conditions, others are using what they 
have got to use, no matter how small, and making 
the best of that ; and thus, like their Master, are glo- 
rifying God upon the earth. 

It is pitiful to see how many there are sighing 
over the wish to know what they were put into the 
world for, with the wish ever ungranted because there 
is no real depth to their desires, only a morbid senti- 
mentality born of selfishness. 

“ There is no shorter or more eventful truth than 
this : ^He that hath the Son hath life^ and he that hath 
not the Son hath not life,"* The life of faith in God 
must be intense ; then the false charm of the world 
will be counteracted.” 

And, in speaking of the higher life as not being the 
life of asceticism, he says : — 

‘‘ Christianity has been abased by its friends. The 
glorious life of the Son of God was not the austere 
asceticism of a hermit. He saw a living beauty in 
every thing that had life. He made all the tones and 
chords of nature sound with the grandest vibrations 
and most exalted harmonies. He spoke of the stones 
as crying aloud. He talked to the fig-tree ; He apo- 


2I8 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


tlieosized the lily of the field : all nature to him was 
capable of being Godlike, and He would see it per- 
fect — the sick made well, the lame, dumb, and blind 
restored. Whenever He was allowed by the souls 
that surrounded Him, He reclaimed and beautified 
and reformed ; never ignored, never oppressed. 

The new creature in Christ feels a new love for 
the world, a higher, holier passion, because he sees 
it through the eyes of Divinity. 

‘‘ The world, with its higher pleasures and nobler 
scenes, is not to be frowned down and despised by 
the Christian because others abuse what is clean and i 
beautiful, and so, in effect, rob him of a part of his 
right to glean in the harvest of God’s great universe.” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 

6 6 T SAY, girls, do for mercy’s sake wake up 1” 

“ Why, what is the matter ?” asked Nancy, 
in a sleepy voice ; and I, who had been awake for 
some time, thought I could dimly discern a white fig- 
ure sitting up in the other bed. 

Matter ! why, it’s most morning and as dark as 
pitch,” said Bessy, dolefully. “I always was a cow- 
ard in the dark ; I confess it with tears. If the can- 
dle was lighted, you would see great stains on my 
face.” 

Shall I light the candle ?” I asked ; but I was 
really out of bed, groping for a match. 

You dear little unselfish thing ! — yes, if you 
please. I’ve just been hearing doors shut, and boards 
creak, and footsteps moving about, ever since the 
clock struck four, almost an hour ago. I’ve seen a 
burglar standing right by my pillow, and couldn’t get 
up the heroics at all. See here !” 

We burst out laughing as soon as the candle was 
lighted, shivering though we were. Bessy had taken 
from under her pillow the most enormous, the forlorn- 
est, rustiest, mightiest old horse-pistol I ever saw in 
my life. 

“ And it hasn’t had any powder in it for forty years, 
I suppose ; but I thought, if anybody did get in, I 


220 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


could just show that I was prepared ; yet, if you’ll 
believe me, when I felt as if there might be a thief in 
the room, I caught the cold shivers, and I couldn’t 
carry my hand to my pillow to save my life. I didn’t 
know I could be so nervous.” 

Any thing more utterly ludicrous than Bessy at 
that moment could hardly have been imagined. I 
had just popped into bed again, still laughing, when 
I felt as if something struck me on the head. 

The pistol was loaded ; it had gone off. 

I fell back, a little stunned. Blossom’s furious 
barking and Bessy’s screams brought me to my 
senses. 

“ Oh, just let me die, too, dear Lord ! please don’t 
let me live another moment !” moaned the frightened 
girl. “ As true as I live, dear God, I didn’t mean it ; 
you know I didn’t mean it !” 

By this time, the door was shaken furiously ; for, 
what with the report of the old blunderbuss, the 
screaming, and Blossom’s frantic noise, it Tvas a lit- 
tle pandemonium for the time being. Nancy, crying 
silently, opened the door. Mrs. Clute and Aunt Gen- 
evieve rushed in. 

‘‘ I’ve killed her. Aunt Jennj" ! I shall never know 
a moment’s peace again as long as I live !” and the 
poor girl was growing hysterical. 

Killed whom ? not me,” I cried, gathering all my 
strength. ‘‘ I’m not killed, Bessy. I guess it struck 
somewhere near me though.” 

By this time, Bessy had me round the neck, and 
Blossom resented it by rolling over both of us, in his 
frantic endeavor to get at the facts. 


A NARROW ESCAPE, 


221 


‘‘ What was it T asked Aunt Jenny, her voice 
trembling. “ I was so glad it didn’t wake mother. 
What a frightful noise !” 

Bessy explained, now sobbing, now laughing. We 
heard Pat, outside the door, expressing his astonish- 
ment by clicking his tongue against his teeth. 

‘‘See,” said Nancy, who had been searching with 
the candle, “there’s the ball right above her head — 
almost in a line — in the headboard.” 

“ My blessed child !” cried Aunt Genevieve, burst- 
ing into tears ; “ what a merciful, what an almost 
miraculous, escape !” 

“ I think it struck the little comb, and that was 
what hurt me,” I said. “ My hair fell down when I 
got out to light the candle ; and I put it up with this 
— see ?” I picked the comb up from the pillow, — or 
rather the fragments of what had been one, — and 
again Bessy hugged me, speechless. 

“ I certainly will live a different life after this ; I 
certainly will,” she said, presently, with hard, dry 
sobs. “ Suppose I had killed you ! and only one lit- 
tle half-inch lower would have done it. I couldn’t 
have lived ; I wouldn’t. But now ! I shall bless 
God every day of my life, that His hand guided that 
ball.” 

“ ‘ All’s well that ends well,’ ” I said, sinking back 
on my pillow ; for I felt a little faint. Aunt Gene- 
vieve went out, and came in again in a few moments 
with some restorative, which she made me swallow ; 
and then she turned her attention to Bessy, who was 
now in a raging fever. 


222 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


‘‘ Never mind me ; I deserve to suffer,” she said, 
with chattering teeth. 

“My poor little darling!” and Aunt Genevieve 
kissed her tenderly. “Just think how good God is, 
and don’t write bitter things against yourself.” 

“ But think how wickedly careless of me. Aunt 
Jenny I” 

“ It was careless, my child ; but it has been a les- 
son to you that you will never forget.” 

“ Forget I” said Bessy, with an emphasis and into- 
nation I am likely to remember as long as I live ; “ I 
shall spend all eternity thanking God that I am not a 
murderer.” 

“ Sure,” we heard Pat say to Mrs. Clute, 0‘utside the 
door, “ if I’d ’a’ dramed what was coming, I wouldn’t 
‘a’ loaded the ould thing ; but, 3^0 see, I thought it 
would be at laste respictable to have some sort o’ fire- 
arms in ridiness. Who’d ’a’ shuspicted that mad- 
cap ’d ’a’ found it? an’ she wid it unther her pillow 
all night I It’s moighty lucky it didn’t go off of it- 
self, which it’s ould and exparienced enough to do.” 

All that day, Bessy was very quiet and very tender 
towards me. It vras as if she had done me a personal 
injury which I had forgiven. 

“ I feel differently from what I ever did in my life,” 
she said, — “ as if some great mercy had been vouch- 
safed to me as a special favor from God. I never 
connected eternity with any thing I have done be- 
fore. After this, do you suppose I shall look at every 
thing in the light of eternity ?” 

“ I suppose we ought,” I said ; “ isn’t eternity what 
we live for and prepare for, if we live as we should ?” 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


223 


Whatever Bessy said that day carried weight with 
it. I was astonished that one with so light a heart 
and merry a tongue could have thought as deeply as 
she must have done, though on the surface apparently 
regardless of reason. And I could busy myself about 
few of my own customary duties. It seemed as if all 
I had to do that day was to be grateful. I had passed 
through a great peril. I had known, for one brief 
second, what it was to feel that the time was drawing 
near, — that I was going to change things visible for 
things invisible ; or, rather, I should say, in Bible lan- 
guage, for the things not seen, which are eternal, the 
things seen being temporal. Hitherto, in my child- 
ish folly, at the first touch of affliction I had shrank 
from life ; — which seemed to my unformed imagina- 
tion valueless ; — now it spread before me like the map 
of some great, undiscovered country, full of marvels, 
attainments, golden opportunities and industries, rich 
with mines of unexplored thought, bright with visions 
of anticipated usefulness. Oh ! I was glad that I had 
been born, even though to a heritage not unmixed 
with trouble. ' I began to see that life lived selfishly 
is a curse ; but that giving sympathy, love, help, hope, 
to others makes one grow grandly strong, fits one for 
great things in the hereafter. I now, for the first 
time, began truly to live the life beautiful,” and 
looked about me on every occasion practicable to find 
something to do for God. 

Nancy, who was one of the passive souls, always 
ready to do whatever her hands found to do, always 
submitting with cheerfulness, always looking on the 


224 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


bright side, — was, by the natural sweetness of her 
temper and disposition, a help to both of us. She, 
sweet soul, would never have many thorns in her 
path ; for, by some wonderful alchemy, she trans- 
formed them to roses. 

So we three sought constantly for work to do for 
Jesus. Happy work we found always ; for our hearts 
went with our hands. How many hours we spent 
hunting for little neglected children, and fitting them 
out for the Sunday-school! In all my life, I have 
seen nothing sweeter than the love of a teacher draw- 
ing human souls to Jesus. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Hallowe’en. 

S OMEWAY, we were all very quietly happy now; 

for we had actually settled down for the win- 
ter. We expected to eujoy ourselves. If outsiders 
came, let them come and be happy with us. There 
were pictures, games, reading, and singing ; for grandy 
had never interfered with our musical pleasures after 
that first night. I was still in disgrace ; that is, 
grandy had never sent for me, and, as it appeared, 
was not likely to send for me all winter. Aunt Gen- 
evieve apologized for a time, and then seemed to give 
it up ; but she was more demonstrative towards me, 
and I grew to love her very dearly for her own as 
well as my dead mother’s sake. 

“ Girls, do you know what day it is ?” said Bessy, 
as we took our usual seats in front of the parlor fire, 
with our work and books. I had a basket full of 
wools, and several little squares of canvas, on each 
of which I was beginning a lesson. We had formed 
a sewing-class for the poorest children in the neigh- 
borhood ; and, every Wednesday afternoon, the little 
girls came to learn how to do worsted work, to em- 
broider, to make button-holes, and to knit. A pretty 
sight it was ; for Mrs. Clute — who entered into the 
arrangement to the extent of making delicious honey- 
cakes and preparing a great dish full of nuts, with 

05 ) 


226 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


which to fill the children’s hands when they left — 
had given up her comfortable room for such occa- 
sions. Sometimes there were twenty little girls, with 
here and there a boy sprinkled in to please Bessy, 
who had her theories on the subject of buttons and 
stocking-heels ; and it was a pretty sight, that drove 
for the time all anxious thought from my mind. Blos- 
som was always in our midst ; and the children were 
delighted with his beauty and good spirits. 

We had but just inaugurated the school, however, 
at the time I mention. 

I thought of Cousin Philip. Yes, it was Hallow- 
e’en. Ever since I could remember, I had celebrated 
Hallowe’en ; now, here we were in the country, a 
heavy snowstorm blocking up the roads, and no fes- 
tivity in preparation. 

We discussed refreshments, tableaus, readings. Fi- 
nally it was decided to hold a reception, and invite, 
in due form. Aunt Genevieve, Mrs. Clute, Pat, Bessy, 
and a young cousin who had lately been admitted as 
an errand girl to Ruby Hall. Instantly changing 
our occupation, we were soon busy with our pens ; 
and each inmate of the house received an invitation 
on the very best gilt-edged note-paper. I practiced 
several of my choicest songs ; and Bessy tried her 
memory by repeating two or three choice selected 
pieces, albeit in rather a droning manner. 

“Did you ever try tricks?” asked Bessy, when, 
every thing arranged, we had grown silent again. 

“What sort of tricks?” asked I, while Nanny 
laughed quietly. 


HALLOWE^EN. 


TZJ 


“ Oh, there are lots of them. You eat salt, and 
throw Indian-meal pellets in water, and go out at 
midnight and take up the first stalk you find, and — 

“ But what is it all for V 

“ Well, if the stalk is straight and handsomCy your 
future husband will be a fine-looking man ; and, if 
plenty of earth adheres to the roots, why^ there’s. 
plenty of money in store for you. I used to think 
they were grand ; but they look silly to me now, af- 
ter our last year’s experience, eh, Nanny ?” 

Nanny shook her head, still laughing. 

“You see, we had a full house last year: there 
were thirty of us all told — aunts and cousins and sec- 
ond cousins, and some who were old friends* All the 
boys were here, — I mean of my own particular fam- 
ily, — and four of us girls — Nancy and I ; Frank War^ 
ren, Nancy’s half-sister; and Ethel Merrill, a more- 
distant relation. We had decided, each one, to take 
a mirror, and walk backwards down-stairs at twelve 
o’clock at night, with a lighted candle. Of course^ 
we were to see at that witching hour the faces of our 
intended bridegrooms. Very well, we chose the back- 
kitchen stairs for the theatre of our little drama ; and,, 
as we moved along the old hall towards them, I think 
v/e were all heartilj^ ashamed of ourselves. I shall 
never forget how, at one particular point, the moon- 
light, coming through a half-open shutter, gave each 
a view of the other’s white face. 

“ Of course we all wished ourselves back in our 
snug, fire-lighted room ; and of course we wouldn’t 
go back. We were bound to see the thing to the 
bitter end ; and we did. 


228 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


“ The stairs, as you know, are very steep ; and you 
may fancy us going down backwards. As was nat- 
ural, I tittered : when was there ever an occasion for 
fun that I didn’t titter ? And, to crown the whole, 
we had utterly forgotten the rhyme that ought to be 
said. For my life, I couldn’t think of any thing but 
‘JSTow I lay me.’ 

‘‘ Presently, Nancy remembered it before we were 
half way down ; and we repeated it in a low voice, 
with considerable composure, when Nanny’s foot 
caught in a fold of her dress, and, presto ! she tum- 
bled against us, and we all went clattering to the bot- 
tom together, and lay there in a heap, as dismal a 
conglomeration as you can possibly imagine. 

^ ‘ Every bone of my body is broken !’ groaned 

Nanny, after a dreadful silence. 

‘‘ ‘ I don’t know whether it’s my neck or my back,’ 
said Frank. 

“ ‘ And I can’t move,’ half sobbed Ethel, who was 
a poor, wee mite of a thing. 

‘‘ ‘ Well, if you can’t move,’ said I, extricating my 
head, — for I was half smothered, — somebody else 
can ; for I hear footsteps.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Serves us right for being such fools,’ said Frank ; 
l)ut, nevertheless, she managed to find the great bolt 
inside, and drew it. 

‘‘ Nanny declared she could not move, and begged 
us not to leave her ; and, indeed, we were too much 
frightened to stir a finger, for a voice right at the 
door cried out, — 

^ Who’s tharre ?* 


HALLOWE^EN. 


229 


“ Of course it was Pat ; we liad no other watch-dog 
in the house. 

“ Dead silence. 

‘‘ ‘ It’s moighty still ye are jist now ; but, by St. 
Patrick, I heard a noise, an’ ’twas on these back stairs 
too ! An’ there’s the bolt drawn,’ he added : ‘ ’twasn’t 
drawed half an hour agone on the inside of it.’ 

‘‘We could hear him apply his ear to the keyhole ; 
but we remained perfectly still. 

“ ‘ I’ll fetch ’em,’ said Pat, with a sort of growl. 

“ ‘ O Bessy, drag me up-stairs,’ said Nancy ; ‘ I’m 
fainting.’ 

“ ‘ Any one who faints at this juncture,’ said I, ‘is 
not worthy the name of woman. Now is your oppor- 
tunity to prove heroic.’ At the same time, I was get- 
ting ready to run. 

“‘Perhaps he has given it up,’ said Kate. ‘But, 
no ; it isn’t like Pat to give up.’ 

“ The steps came again. 

“ ‘ O Bessy, if those boys get hold of this !’ she said, 
a moment after. 

“ Just then there was a click. 

“ ‘ Ef you don’t git out o’ there,’ roared Pat, ‘ you’re 
a dead man. One, two, — ’ 

“ ‘Pat, don’t you dare to fire !’ said I, forgetting all 
caution. 

“ ‘ Don’t I dare^ is it ? Sure, I won’t thin. Miss 
Bessy,’ said that audacious Pat. ‘ I’d forgot what 
night it was ;’ and we heard him laughing to himself 
louder and louder. Oh, if ever I wanted to box a 
pair of ears, first one and then the other, it surely 
was then. 


230 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


‘ Pat,’ said I, ‘ we’re all here.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Sure, that’s what I misthrusted,’ he muttered, 
still laughing. 

VAnd you see we’re quite at your mercy.’ 

‘ Marcy, is it ?’ said he ; ‘ ouch ! I’ll be marci- 

ful.’ 

‘‘ ‘ And you won’t tell on us, will you, Pat ?’ said 
I, raging internally, but speaking like silk velvet. 

“ ‘ Surely not, if it bees your wish, Miss Bessy ;* 
and Pat doubled himself up, — I know he did as well 
as if I had seen him, — and laughed till he cried. 

“As for us,” continued Bessy, looking over at 
Nanny, whom I had never seen in such convulsions 
of mirth, “ we crawled up-stairs the best we could ; 
and I don’t think Nanny walked without a limp for 
a month afterwards ; did you, Nanny ? Oh, bless 
me ! I forgot the mirrors. I’d like not to have told 
you that part. We left them behind, and Kate and 
I volunteered to go back for them. Imagine our con- 
sternation, when we opened the door on the upper 
landing, to see Pat leisurely unwrapping them. 

“ ‘ Pat,’ I cried, wrathfully, ‘ that’s our property !’ 

“‘Yes, miss,’ said Pat, shaking; ‘I was wonder- 
ing how they come here and he came up-stairs, and 
gave them to me. If you’ll believe me, the only glass 
he had unwrapped was his own picture, painted by — 
me 1 in no very flattering colors.” 

“ O Bessy !” I said ; and the expression of her face 
and her gesture, as she said “ me,” pointing to her- 
self, upset my gravity. 

“ Well^ you see I did it for fun ; it was to fall to 


HALLOWE^EN, 


231 


Kate’s lot. But wasn’t I well punished?” contin- 
ued Bessy. ‘‘If Pat hadn’t been a gentleman by 
nature, he never would have forgiven me ; for, while 
the likeness was perfect, the details verged on the 
grotesque. I can tell you my cheeks blazed when- 
ever I met Pat, for a long time after that. As for 
Kate, she was the maddest girl I ever saw, for a week. 
Kate’s no angel, is she, Nanny ? You see they hadn’t ' 
any idea I had really put faces inside the mirrors ; 
but I had, in each one of them.” 

“ Mine was a Russian bear,” said Nancy ; “ and 
Ethel’s a Skye terrier, with the fluffiest face imagin- 
able ; and, as it was very like a certain gentleman 
friend of hers, why, the effect was striking.” 

“More striking than imposing,” said Bessy. “I 
don’t believe Ethel ever quite forgave me ; but I still 
think, if we had carried it out and hadn’t made such 
a miserable failure, we should have enjoyed the joke 
tolerably.” 

“ And what was there in yours ?” I asked. 

“ Oh, there wasn’t any thing in mine but my own 
face, when I looked in it. By the way,” — and she 
took a letter from her pocket, — “ I got a short and 
sweet note from my brothers to-day. They have not 
forgotten last Hallowe’en. They heard the noise, you 
see, and guessed out the rest. If we -didn’t have to 
mask our faces all the next day ! They declared the 
house was haunted, and then each one gave his ver- 
sion of the noises he heard. It was at the breakfast 
table, too, mind you ; and there was Pat, most omi- 
nously solemn, waiting upon table ; and, whenever he 


232 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


looked our way, I didn’t know whether I should faint ,1 
or scream, for there was an unmistakable expression i 
in those funny eyes of his. And poor Kate ! you 
could have lighted a candle at her cheeks. Well, \ 
well, all those wild, wicked days are over. I never 
want to try tricks again.” | 

“ But what of your letter, dear ?” asked Nanny. 

Oh ! here it is. 

“ ‘ Thou Bess of Many Brothers : — 

“ ‘ We shall pour down on Ruby Hall like a deluge about the 
20th of December — Christmas time. We shall come in shooting- 
coats and carpet-bags. Say to grandy I’m dying to see her : that’s 
a phrase the young ladies use. Tell Pat to polish up the old sleigh, 
likewise the gray horses. We intend to spend a whole jolly week.’ 

“ I’m so glad !” said Bessy ; ‘‘ for I want you to see 
them. Cousin Ada Stewart, and I particularly want 
them to see you. As for grandy, she will be at her \ 
best ; for she is very fond of her grandsons. But I | 
forgot” — and she grew grave — ‘‘you have not even j 
seen grandy yet. It would be rather awkward if she | 
should come down-stairs, and be introduced as a jj] 
stranger to you.” 

I smiled at the idea ; but, nevertheless, it troubled 
me. “ Did grandy ever come down-stairs ?” I asked ; 
and was told that she sometimes did on great occa- 
sions. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A NEW ROLE FOR AUNT GENEVIEVE. 

O UR reception was a success. Pat helped us dec- 
orate the room with evergreen and lights. My 
cousins came down in wonderful dresses, that quite 
put to shame my plain gray silk ; but then, they were 
both to assume a variety of attitudes inside of an enor- 
mous frame, which Mrs. Clute had found for us in the 
garret, and which once had held a life-size picture of 
Grandfather Normandy. We had found an old harp, 
and strung it with twine. In the shadow at the fur- 
ther end of the room, it looked very well. I was to 
be the performer ; and an idea took possession of me. 
I had brought my beautiful party dress ; and, when 
the time should come for me to be presented, I in- 
tended to excuse myself, go up-stairs, put on my 
splendid array, and, under cover of the great screen, 
return and be posed. 

Our audience was neither very large nor very select ; 
but it was the most delighted little group of listeners 
I ever saw. Their quaint expressions, their homely 
applause, their frequent bursts of laughter more hearty 
than elegant, really repaid us for all our trouble. 

While Bessy was reading “ Our Hero has Come 
Back,” I carried out my part of the programme, and 
took them all by storm. Poor little Aunt Genevieve 
cried ; — ^for of course she remembered her sister’s wed- 
ding-dress ; — and my triumph was complete. 


234 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


‘‘ Slyboots,” whispered Bessy, when the “ Genius 
OF Music ” had descended from her pedestal, “you 
looked just too beautiful for any thing real. If you 
could only have heard Sally! ‘Jemima!’ cried she, 
in a sharp voice, ‘ that’s a picture ; you needn’t tell 
me that’s a real flesh-and-blood critter.’ The ‘ critter ’ 
will now take the music-stool,” she added, %otto voce ; 
“ and remember, no Scotch songs.” 

“ I’ll never forgit this evening, miss,” said Pat. 
“ Sure, it’s yersilf looks like thim angels floatin’ on 
clouds, as I saw once in the catheredral ; and I jist 
bow to you, as I did to thim.” 

“ Young ladies,” said Mrs. Clute, solemnly, “ in 
the name of the kitchen and the housekeeper’s par- 
lor, I thank you for this kind deception ; and, if ever 
you have another, may I be there to see !” 

“ Maybe j^e don’t know,” said Pat, with a slow 
grimace, “ that we belong to the hire classes and, 
with this quiet pun, he left. 

The next day, we went to church through the snow, 
and came home to find the house swarming with vis- 
itors. They were old-time friends of the Normandies, 
up from Boston ; and I understood that grandy re- 
ceived them in great state. She liked a house full. 
Nothing pleased her better than chance company. 
It was her boast, that, no matter how many visitors 
came, or at what season or hour, they never found 
her unprepared. So it was now. The g6od cheer in 
that kitchen made every shelf and table groan. The 
housekeeper was quite equal to the occasion ; Pat in 
his element as chief butler ; and Sally, with her red- 


A UNT GENE VIE VE IN A NEW R OLE, 235 


armed assistant, proved that she had not been trained 
in a New England kitchen in vain. 

For two days, there was no solitude except in the 
mighty, rough-raftered room at the top of the house, 
which I had entered two or three times with fear and 
trembling. It was there, in an old herb-smelling box, 
I had found ‘‘ Bunyan’s Pilgbim’s Progkess,” which 
I read with unstinted delight, and which opened up 
■ a new field of thought for me. Not a picture of that 
[i book beautiful but I can recall to-day ; not a step 
I that ‘‘ Christian ” took but I can follow him. Thank 
li God, that, in my youth, I became acquainted with 
I that grand creation, — that, while my mind w^s un- 
sullied, fiction presented itself to me in its rarest,, 
purest form ! 

When the company had gone, we came down to 
our own calm level again. Sometimes a young gen- 
tleman belonging in the neighborhood would stray 
in ; but they were all farming people, and had, no 
doubt, a wholesome contempt for us city folk. Poor 
Seth had never ventured up to Ruby Hall since Bes- 
sy’s spirited reply to his letter ; and, indeed, we could 
very well dispense with male company, since we were 
expecting Bessy’s five brothers, and making all our 
plans with reference to them. 

Do you manage them, I wonder,” I asked one 
day when we were talking about them, or do they 
manage you ?” 

Bessy laughed : a tender, musical little laugh it 
was. 

can answer that question,” said Nancy, who 


236 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


was winding wool. ‘‘ My lady has them her feet 
all the time, like the tyrannical princess in the fairy 
story. She is, in a way, more of a tyrant than grandy 
herself. One runs for a shawl, another carries her 
sunshade ; and she has only to half express a wish, 
presto ! it is gratified. I have known her to have 
five boxes of gloves at a time, — I’ve seen them my- 
self, — and such an amount of pin-money ! . As for 
jewels and pretty things, I’ve no doubt she might 
set up a bazar with the stock she has on hand. My 
private opinion is, that her extraordinary modesty in 
dress and ornaments, for which grandy once praised 
her, is due, not so much to her high moral qualities, 
as to the fact that she had an early surfeit of all such 
worldly and dangerous vanities. Her word is law ; 
her commands are implicitly obeyed. I wonder she 
isn’t the most wilful little cricket alive.” 

Bessy rose, and gravely made a most profound 
courtesy., 

‘‘ Still,” she said, I hope I have a few high moral 
qualities.” 

‘‘ Here comes Aunt Genevieve,” said Nanny, ris- 
ing. Give her that easy-chair, Bessy. Why, you 
are lame !” she added, going round to her side. 

‘‘Yes; I believe I turned my ancle coming down- 
stairs : the pain won’t last long and, sinking into 
the easy-chair, she maintained her usual gentle com- 
placency for a moment, then, leaning her head on her 
hands, all in one little second she wept softly but bit- 
terly. We girls, at that, hardly knew what to do or 
say. We just stood round, and looked on in silent 


A UNT GENE VIE VE IN A NE W ROLE, 237 


awe. Never before had we seen a tear in the dove- 
like eyes of Aunt Genevieve. 

You are hurt, dear aunty, more than you say,” at 
last I ventured, putting my arm about her neck. 

‘‘No, my darling ; I’m weak and foolish, that’s all. 
Don’t mind me and she strove hard to force back 
the tears. “ I think I must be growing nervous and 
silly ; and yet I scarcely know what to do. I’m at 
my wits’ end.” 

“ Then it’s grandy !” said Bessy, with emphasis. 

“ Hush, my dear — ” 

“ ‘ Lie still and slumber,’ ” added Bessy, with her 
pretty head thrown back ; “ no, I won’t. I say grandy 
ought to be ashamed of herself. Her tyranny is dread- 
ful.” 

“ It is very hard to please her,” almost sobbed 
Aunt Genevieve ; and she looked so helpless, and at 
the same time so sweet and saintlike, that Bessy’s 
face grew stormy. “ She won’t be soothed, some 
way. Drops and tonics do no good ; nothing I can 
propose is of the least avail. She has seemed better 
all day ; at least I hoped so, for she walked about a 
good deal,” said Aunt Genevieve, with an air of utter 
exhaustion. “ I shouldn’t wonder if she came down- 
stairs. She appears to think you want to be looked 
after. Actually she drove me out of the room. I 
never saw her in such a mood ; it certainly is getting 
almost unbearable.” 

“ It’s her conscience,” said Bessy, solemnly. 

Aunt Genevieve closed her eyes, and sank back in 
\er chair, the very picture of bewilderment. 


-238 GRAN DM0 THER NORM AND Y. 

Aunt Jenny, if she sends for you, don’t you go,’^ 
said Bessy. 

My dear, you don’t know,” was the answer, with 
a faint, reproving smile. “ I am as wax in her hands. 
Thirteen years is a long apprenticeship.” 

‘‘ I hope I am not the cause of this trouble. Aunt 
Genevieve and I lifted her hands to my lips. “ If 
I thought I was placing one straw more of burden 
upon your patient heart, I’d go home to-morrow.” 

“ No, child, that you shall not do,” said Aunt Gen- 
evieve, resolutely, lifting herself to an erect position. 
A red spot flamed in either cheek. ‘‘ I am entitled 
to some little consideration ; I have assumed a respon- 
sibility, and I will hold it. Unless you are very un- 
happy here, you must stay and make me happy.” 

Bessy kissed her between the eyes ; then, setting 
her lips firmly together, she marched out of the room. 

‘‘ I’m sure there’s not much pleasure for you, my 
poor darling,” continued Aunt Genevieve, engrossed 
with her own grievances. ‘‘ Even when I come down 
to see you for a little while, I make doleful company.” 

We’re glad to have you on any terms,” said Nanny, 
leaning over her. 

Indeed we are !” I echoed. 

“ I don’t know what I should do, girls, if you were 
not here,” said Aunt Genevieve, breaking down again, 
and hiding her face in the folds of Nancy’s dress. 

“ We’ll take you home with us,” said Nancy, gently. 

You shall go to Hollyhoxy,” I supplemented. “ I 
think I wouldn’t mind staying there if you were with 
me — ^you and Cousin Philip.” 


AUNT GENEVIEVE IN A NEW jR OLE. 


‘‘ Thank you, dear,” — and her eyes shone through 
the tears, — “you comfort me so much! I should 
have kept my trouble to myself; but it was daily 
growing so heavy I I have borne and borne, till now 
it seems as if all my patience is exhausted, and I can- 
not bear any more.” 

I went softly to the piano, and played all the ten- 
der little airs I knew. Aunt Jenny listened and 
smiled, and was comforted. Presently she asked, — 

“ Where is Bessy?” 

“ She left the room a moment ago,” said Nanny. 

“ My dear, you don’t think she has gone up to herP’^ 
exclaimed Aunt Jenny, with pale lips. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


GRANDY S REPROOF, 


HAT was just where Bessy had gone. Aunt 



A. Genevieve’s pallor, her tears, her terror, had 
awakened in the young Westerner the ancient ances- 
tral courage, which, according to tradition, centuries 
before had faced battle-axes, and death, without flinch- 


iiig. 


Surely, one might, with almost equal hardihood, 
face Grandy Normandy in one of her moods. 

Up the stairs she ran, paused a moment to recover 
her breath before she entered ; then she gave a loud 
double knock. 

“ Come in,” said a sharp voice. 

“ Go out !” it supplemented, quite as sharply, when 
Bessy’s luminous eyes, quite black with the intensity 
of her emotion, appeared within the door. But the 
girl stood her ground, while grandy half rose from her 
great armchair. 

I am not going out ; I am coming in. I have 
something of great consequence to say to you,” said 
Bessy, flinching not a whit from the steady fire of 
those piercing eyes, though the perspiration stood 
cold upon her temples. 

I don’t wish to hear any thing ; I desire to be left 
alone,” said the invalid, imperiously, striking the floor 
with her pointed stick. 


GRANDT'S REPROOF, 


241 


Grandmother, you are never alone ; you know 
you never are,” answered the girl, steadily, advanc- 
ing a few steps nearer. Your memories are with 
you ! your dead are with you, it may be. Above, 
and more awful than all, God is with you !” and she 
lifted her hand, with an impressive gesture, upward. 

Grandy sat for a moment like one paralyzed, her 
keen, hollow, black eyes riveted on the face of her 
daring descendant. The long white fingers worked 
convulsively over the carved head of the cane in her 
hand. She was little accustomed to hear opinions so 
plainly, so almost threatening!}" expressed; and the 
young girl standing so fearless, lighting up the 
dusky, shadowy room with the magnetism of youth 
and beauty, and the power of her direct and simple 
utterance, did make the despotic old woman quail 
for once. 

Where is my daughter Genevieve ? did she send 
you here to insult me ? How dare you come, a green 
child, and threaten me to my face ! Where were you 
brought up, and how, thus to lose all respect for age 
and infirmity ? I would put you out if I could. I 
will put you out if you don’t go ; I have not lost all 
my strength, if I am nearing my grave.” 

Grandy, I have only this to say,” said intrepid 
Bessy : “ You broke the heart of Aunt Hatty’s child 
— ^your own grandchild, a desolate, helpless orphan — 
when she came straight from the death-bed of mother 
and father to you. Think how she came alone, brav- 
ing the dangers of the ocean, a girl of seventeen, to 
be refused, by her own flesh and blood, shelter, recog- 
16 


242 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


nition, and love ! And there is our sweet Cousin 
Ada down-stairs: you have nothing to say to her; 
j"ou have not even welcomed, not even spoken to her 
since she has been under your roof, for no fault of her 
own ; — and you boast of your hospitality ! Grandy, 
you are very cruel, a very cruel woman. I want to 
love you ; I long to venerate you ; I should like to 
have your blessing, and remember you by-and-bye as 
a saint ; but how can I, when you have been so hard, 
unkind, unforgiving, — ^yes, cruel !” 

Cruel !” 

The passion, the emphasis of this word cannot be 
reproduced on paper. 

Grandy drew a heavy breath. Her lips, her brow, 
worked, while the veins stood out on her aged tem- 
ples like cords. 

“Cruel!” she repeated; “hear this child of nine- 
teen arraign me^ the woman of three score and ten! 
She knows so much of life ! she has had so many ex- 
periences ! she, who has never smiled over the new 
born nor wept over the dead ! she, who never wor- 
shiped, with all the intensity of a deep and passionate 
nature, the idols before they turned to clay ! Oh, she, 
with her butterfly experience and existence, dares to 
judge me, who have followed seven of my dead from 
these doors, each time laying in the cold ground a 
piece of my tortured heart. And then, when ingrati- 
tude, desertion, fondness betrayed and repaid by the 
basest returns, have silvered this head and imbittered 
this wretched life, this wise child, who knows so much, 
comes to add to the old woman’s torture, and says 1 


GRAND r^S REPROOF. 


243 


am cruel ! Father, forgive her I my God, forgive 
her !” and, bowing her aged head, Grandy Normandy 
burst into bitter sobs and moans, rocking to and fro 
with very anguish. 

For one brief moment, the young girl stood dis- 
mayed, struck to the heart. Grandy’s burning words 
had fallen on her soul like drops of red-hot lava. She 
felt, that, in a sense, all she had said was deadly true. 

O grandmother, forgive me ! don’t cry like that ! 
oh, I am so sorry !” and she fell on her knees by the 
side of the chair. I was presumptuous ; I ask you, 
kneeling, to forgive me. I see now that it is I am 
cruel ; I am but a child, and know nothing of sorrow 
or trouble. Won’t you forgive me, grandmother ? I 
came of my own accord. Aunt Jenny didn’t send 
me ; she is too good and loving ; nothing would tempt 
her to do so. Let me love you ; let us all love you, 
and one another. I didn’t mean to hurt you so. I 
was very unwise ; I am very sorry.” 

Grandy lifted her gray head. It was almost awful 
to see the seams and hollows of that thin old face all 
drenched in tears. 

“You shocked me, child; you shocked me!” she 
said, in slow accents. “ And yet what does it matter 
by whom God sends truth ? Go away now, and let 
me think. Go send Jenny up to me. I was unkind 
to the poor girl this morning, unkind to the only one 
who remains leal and loving. . May the God of the 
widow and the desolate reward her I” 

“ Then you forgive me, grandy ?” said Bessy, tim- 
idly. 


244 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

‘‘ Yes, yes, I forgive you. You have the spirit of 
the Normaiidies ; you will make a good woman I 
hope. Only wait till you are sent, my child ; though 
perhaps you were — perhaps you were — how can I 
tell ? There, I am weary and weak. Go ask Jenny 
to come up to me.” 

Quietly the young girl arose, shorn of her over- 
weening confidence, humbled in her pride and self 
assertion. She moved away then, with a little ges- 
ture of humility, came back, and her voice trembled 
as she faltered, — 

You’ll let me kiss you, grandmother ? I’d like to 
kiss you now.” 

‘‘ Come here, child and grandy held out her arms, 
and presently the girl was held with a nervous, yearn- 
ing grasp to the heart that had lost so much. 

‘‘ And, grandmother, may I ask one more favor ?” 

Well, child, I suppose I must hear you to the 
end.” 

‘‘ May Cousin Ada come up with Aunt Genevieve? 
She is much more lovable than I am, grandy, dear 
and the eloquent eyes spoke more strongly than words. 

“Yes, child; tell her her old grandmother wants 
to see her.” 

“ O grandy, now you are glorious !” cried impulsive 
Bessy, and rushed from the room. 

All the foregoing she told us between laughter and 
tears. 

“ Cousin Ada Stewart,” she added, “ she will just 
worship you. I expect she has been longing to 
break in upon her pride, and is very glad I broke it 
for her.” 


GRANDT^S REPROOF. 


245 


Aunt Genevieve listened, quite incredulous. I was 
filled with alarms. I had never had a strong desire 
to see grand j ; but now it seemed as if some sweet 
voice whispered in my ear, “ Be ye reconciled.” 

Ah, the sweet Bible words ! how everywhere and 
in every state they adapt themselves to human needs, 
longings, and duties! I took Aunt Jenny’s hand; 
and, like two children, we entered the dreaded pres- 
ence. 

Grandy was prepared. There was no half-way for- 
giveness or confession with a Normandy. 

“My child, I have been unjust,” she said; “come 
here.” 

She held me for a little while in silence. When 
she spoke, her voice was broken. 

“ I asked your mother to come to me ; but Tie said 
no. I recognized the right of a husband, and acqui- 
esced in the obedience of a wife ; but it was very hard, 
my dear. You are her second self ; let me look at 
you.” 

She held me at arms’ length. 

“ They tell me you are veiy kind and gentle and 
forgiving,” she said. “You are like my Genevieve, 
who gave up her own happiness to bear with the pet- 
ulance and foolish whims of a poor, selfish old wo- 
man.” 

“ Mother I” said Aunt Genevieve, a shade of re- 
proof in her voice. 

“ Let me talk, Jenny ; I seem to have had new 
light let into my mind since that child came up here 
this morning. My dear, they tell me you are a Chris- 
tian.” 


246 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


“ I hope I am,” I said. 

‘‘ You shall teach me, you two, how to believe, in 
my old age. As for Jenny, the Lord will surely bless 
her, because she has obeyed the holy command, ‘ Honor 
thy father and thy mother.’ Where is Philip Mars- 
ton ?” 

Aunt J enny turned away ; and I stammered a little 
as I answered her. 

‘‘ So he has never married? Well, he has proved 
his fidelity at all events. Write him to come to Ruby 
Hall.” 

0 mother I” murmured Aunt Jenny. 

Hush, Jenny, I am going to have my way now 
as before. I have lived in silence and gloom and 
suffering long enough. It is not too late for the 
sun to shine a little while on my old age, and then 
there is the twilight. Write him to come to Christ- 
mas, Ada Stewart ; and remember to say that I ask 
him, and shall take it as a very great favor. Be cir- 
cumstantial ; don’t miss a word.” 

1 promise you I will not, dear grandmother,” I 
said ; and I began to feel my heart warming towards 
her. My own dear mother’s mother! I had cher- 
ished resentment towards her almost unknown to my- 
self ; and, in a Christian’s heart, there should be no 
room for resentment. Even towards Martha Voles 
I had grown charitable : it was the fruit of holier liv- 
ing, of a purer heart. Every day Christ grew more 
and more a reality. The time had long gone by when 
he seemed like a myth. Every thing in nature now 
was vocal with his praise. I began to understand 


GRAND r^S REPROOF, 


247 


how it was that Christ could dwell within me, and 
how He could be seen wherever the eye that loved 
Him turned. I saw how that, before this blissful 
change, I had made my own gods, and worshiped 
them, — how that idolatry is the darkness of the hu- 
man heart, but true worship the beacon-light of the 
most obscure spirit. I was like one working in a dia- 
mond mine — every jewel I found was more precious 
than the last, because it added value to all the rest. 
It was shown to me, in some mysterious way, that 
God is full of S3^mpathy for His creatures ; and con- 
sequently my heart was always going up to Him. 
These things I did not fathom then exactly as I do 
now, because my religious life is broader ; and yet, in 
one way and another, I experienced all I have said. 
There is a deal of romance in the poetic and artistic 
Christianity of to-day, a deal of idealistic and unreal 
devotion to the hero of a world’s educated fancy, a 
mythic spiritualism. It is because we want to make 
our own Christ : we are not willing to take Him as 
He came, the Son of God. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


COUSIN PHILIP AT RUBY HALL. 

O NCE more the old Hall would he ablaze with 
light and full of happy, echoing voices. 

Bessy declared it was like the change from a grave- 
yard to a ballroom ; for she had felt ever since her 
visit, till now, as if there was a corpse in the house. 

Sweet and savory smells reached us from the long, 
roomy kitchen. We girls went round with Mrs. 
Clute, inspecting the great wardrobes built into the 
wall in the hall up-stairs, and learned what store 
grandy set by her linen-chests. We unfolded great 
fluffy blankets, odorous with lavender, that no moth 
had dared to touch with his destructive maw ; im- 
mense quilts of cotton, of wool, even of satin, — one 
in particular, made of the softest pearl-gray silk em- 
broidered with white floss, that a friend had brought 
her from across the ocean. We admired the wonder- 
ful table-cover on which the birds seemed ready to 
fly the moment you opened it. So we went singing, 
brightening up unused rooms, and making the hearths 
ready for the fires that would soon blaze upon them. 
Mrs. Clute allowed us to inspect her pantries ; and, 
if ever poetry entered simple glass jars and nestled 
down in the midst of preserved sweets, it certainly 
was there. Such crimsons and yellows and luscious, 
lucid browns, all so daintily arranged ! The pears 


COUSIN PHILIP AT RUB r HALL. 


249 


looked as if they might have been picked but yester- 
day. 

“ I’ll back my preserve closets against any in the 
county,” said Mrs. Clute. Your grandmother taught 
me how ; for, when I fust come here I was younger 
than Sally ; and she was a good mistress, I’ll allow, 
barring a touch of temper now and then. But then, 
great beauties always is spoiled, you see ; and her 
husband he treated her just like a baby. I never did 
see two such lovin’ people. I think it nigh broke 
her heart to lay him in the ground. She ain’t been 
the same woman since, and that’s thirteen years ago.” 

Then Mrs. Clute allowed us to look on while she 
roasted and baked. There was a stove in the kitchen, 
but she never used it on special occasions. It was a 
new experience to see meat roasted on the spit ; but 
it was great fun to turn the turkey before the blazing 
fire of hard wood, and hear the gravy hiss and splut- 
ter. 

The long, wide dresser shelves were a sight to 
see. 

“ When in the world are we going to consume so 
many chickens?” cried Bessy, aghast. “We shall 
all turn into restaurants, with show-windows full of 
game.” 

“ No danger. Miss Bessy,” said Mrs. Clute ; “ them’s 
for the poor. Mistress gives a Christmas dinner apiece 
to twelve poor families.” 

“ Bless her !” said Bessy, reverently ; and then we 
turned our attention to cracking walnuts. 

“ Your grandfather was very fond o’ these in the 


250 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 


season of them. He used to spread them in the south 
room,” said Mrs. Clute, ‘‘ when the children was lit- 
tle ; and he’d make a great square almost all over the 
floor, so that, if just one was taken, it couldn’t help 
being missed at first sight. It was great fun when 
he did miss ’em, I can tell you.” 

Cousin Philip had written me that he would come. 
Wouldn’t he ! Why, his letter was sunshine itself. 
It seemed as if the diamond on the point of his pen 
must have run fluid light. He was happy from the 
first word to the last ; and a greater joy must have 
underlaid the beautiful thoughts. He would surely 
come on Christmas Day. 

I got my arm round Aunt Genevieve, and whis- 
pered the news in her ear as a great secret. How 
beautifully she blushed, and how glorious grew her 
eyes ! She was a happy woman : she had been faith- 
ful to her duty, her conscience, and her heart. More 
than once the gentle words of my mother came back 
to me with a new meaning : — 

‘‘Perhaps to her only may be pronounced the ‘Well 
done, good and faithful servant.’ ” 

The reward of a mother’s gratitude, though it came 
very late, was sufi&cient for all the past of trial and 
^endurance for Christ’s sake. 

There never was a brighter day than that in which 
the coach rolled up to the door, and the five brothers, 
Oily at their head, marched into the house. Cousin 
Philip came with them ; and I was rather glad that 
Aunt Genevieve had gone out, accompanied hj Sally 
with well-loaded baskets hanging from each fat arm. 


COUSIN PHILIP AT RUB r HALL, 25 1 

to see grandy’s poor, to whom, as I have said before, 
a liberal supply of Christmas dainties was always 
given the day before. 

We were all together in the bright parlor, now 
connected with another room by the opening of fold- 
ing-doors. 

“ And how is our stately, handsome old grandy ?” 
queried Walter, the youngest of the brothers, a pretty, 
curly-headed youth. Cousin Philip had gone to his 
room, and Aunt Jenny had not come back yet. 

She is better, ever so much better,” said Bessy, 
as she bent over a geranium which had just blos- 
somed ; and she smiled, what at she and the bright 
flowers knew between them. 

‘‘ How different they all are !” I said to Bessy, when 
I could get her by myself ; who is the one who made 
straight for the books ? He is reading now, or rather 
turning over the leaves of some old worm-eaten vol- 
ume.” 

‘‘ Oh, he reads Greek,” said Bessy, laughing. ‘^He 
is the bookworm as well as the Adonis of the family. 
Don’t you think him handsome?” 

“ Yes, he is,” I frankly admitted. 

‘‘ We call him ‘ Friar Tuck,’ ” said Bessy, he is so 
quiet and so fond of the woods. We all have char- 
acter names at home.” 

‘‘ What is yours ?” I asked. 

“ ‘ Queen Mab ’ and ‘ Tibby ’ and sometimes ‘ Mar- 
plot.’ ” 

“ And that dark-haired one looking at the pic- 
tures?” 


252 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 

‘‘ ‘ Robin Hood.’ The youngest one, that rather 
pretty boy, has a name not in the least romantic — 
‘ Jack-at-a-pinch.’ ” 

I suppose because he is always ready.” 

‘‘ That’s he exactly. Wally is the very essence of 
good nature.” 

At that moment, the young fellow came forward, 
and pretty soon Nanny joined him. While I was, I 
fear, staring at them and thinking how handsome they 
looked side by side, Bessy gave me a sign, and flew 
out of the room. I followed her. 

There is Aunt Genevieve coming through the 
short cut,” she said, dancing to the door. 

“ O you darling,” she cried, with a fervent kiss, as 
Aunt Jenny came in, ‘‘why -didn’t you take us with 
you on your mission of mercy ?” 

“ I thought you would rather meet your brothers, 
my dear. They are here, I suppose.” 

“ Yes, they have all come.” 

“Well, — what are you watching me so for?” and 
the faintest shade of color rippled along her cheeks. 

“ Why, you look so lovely. Aunt Jenny. The walk 
has given you a sweet color — and — you ought to keep 
your hat on — it’s charming; isn’t it. Cousin Ada?” 

Of course I said yes, and without hypocrisy, while 
Bessy busied herself with fussy little touches about 
her neck, her hair, her own eyes full of mischief. 

“ Aunt Jenny, somebody came beside the boys — 
our boys I mean,” said Bessy. “ You don’t mean to 
Bay you are going to faint ?” she cried, aghast. 

“ I faint ! oh, no, I never fainted in my life,” said 


COUSIN PHILIP AT RUB r HALL. 


253 


Aunt Jenny, with a forced little laugh. ‘‘I’ll go up- 
stairs now to mother. Of course I understand — ” 

“ Here she is ! here’s Aunt Jenny !” cried a boyish 
voice. “ Hurrah, a kiss apiece for Christmas !” 

The door opened behind him ; and Aunt Jenny had 
seen Cousin Philip, and he had seen her. 

For one second, she was awfully shaken. The color 
fled from her face, leaving it like marble. Bessy just 
looked ; and 1 did think, for a moment, it was she 
who was going to faint. 

There was no scene, however. Instantly the wo- 
man’s dignity came to her aid ; and, as if she had 
parted from him but yesterday instead of thirteen 
years ago (what an age that seemed to me then !), 
bidding him as she thought an eternal farewell, she 
said, in a voice that was just a thought unsteady, — 

“ Philip, I am happy to see you,” and held out her 
hand. 

Then Bessy, who, I suppose, could not help being 
dramatic, showed me her palms where she had clenched 
them with her nails. 

Well, that was just as it should be. They were old 
friends, those two ; and they met as old friends. Aunt 
Genevieve was very quietlj" happy ; I knew that, if 
there were tears in her eyes when she turned to go up- 
stairs. I knew it by the flush in her cheek and the 
spring of her step. 

We had a merry revel that night; and we hung our 
stockings all in a row, and, in the morning after break- 
fast, we went on a tour of inspection. The budget of 
miscellanies they contained was a sight to see. There 


254 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT, 


was a happy family of cotton-flannel rabbits, mice, 
beetles, cats, and spiders. A set of corncob furni- 
ture fell to Bessy’s lot; and a brace of black picka- 
ninnies, whose beaded eyes were fearful to behold, 
was consigned to Nancy. I was treated to a brooch 
and ear-rings composed of anthracite ; and Bessy 
wore bracelets cunningly devised from all sorts of 
vegetables for the rest of the day. It was, however, 
reserved for evening to rifle the Christmas-tree of its 
costly gifts. 

Grandy could not be there ; but she sent heartfelt 
thanks down to the nephews and nieces for a magnifi- 
cent camel’s-hair shawl and a splendid bearskin, while 
shouts went up as Aunt Jenny opened a plain but 
rich casket wherein shone a complete suit of dia- 
monds set in the most beautiful and chaste design. 
Dear little Aunt Jenny’s fingers trembled, and she 
dared not look up. 

“Diamonds!” sighed Nancy; “and I’ve wanted 
just one solitaire all my life.” 

“ Which tomes just in season, then,” exclaimed 
Bessy, opening a delightful little box wherein spark- 
led a superb diamond. 

“ Hold your finger out,” said Bessy. 

Nanny moved her hand mechanically, so dazed that 
she could not speak. 

“ There, now be thankful,” laughed Bessy ; “ you’ve 
got what you’ve wanted all your life.” 

“ I certainly am not dreaming,” murmured the girl, 
turning the circlet this way and that, “but I can’t 
believe it yet.” 


COUSIN PHILIP AT RUBT HALL, 


255 


‘‘ Well give you all the evening to convince 3"our- 
self,” said Bessy. 

There fell to my lot a pair of gold hands and a let- 
ter. The bands of course were from Cousin Philip. 
1 need not say how fast my heart beat when I saw 
upon the envelope of the letter a foreign postmark, 
and recognized my father’s handwriting. I had 
scarcely expected a letter from him. 

We’ll give you one good hour to read your letter 
if you’ll promise to sing for us three of your choicest 
songs,” said Bessy, mischievously. 

It is needless to say that I did promise, and was 
soon in my room alone with an unaccustomed pleas- 
ure. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


MY FATHERS LETTER. 


i i Ti yTY darling child.” 




That was the commencement. The letter 
was dated Paris. 

I kissed every word, it was so new and sweet to be 
thus remembered. 

I am sitting in the ante-room of our old house, 
and I need not say what recollections arise in my 
mind as I think of the past. A very pleasant French 
family occupy our former apartments. Your friend 
Rupert is still here with his mother; his father is 
dead. Monsieur Bouve and his sister look exactly as 
they did on the morning of our departure — the flow- 
ers, the yard, the surroundings, the neighbors, are all 
the same, while the old clock gives now the hour of 
ten. Monsieur Bouve hopes that you have not neg- 
lected your French, and his sister that you still re- 
member how to make the zouffle she taught you. I 
give their messages as they send them. 

And now, my dear child, some words about my- 
self. I am naturally a reticent man ; and, after the 
grave-sod was placed over the face of the one only 
woman I ever loved^ a sudden disgust of existence 
seized me. From night till morning and from morn- 
ing till night, my life was passed in utter weariness, 
save only in those hours when business cares required 


Mr FATHER'S LETTER. 


257 


my attention. I fell into a passive state of mental 
hardness, that is the only way I can describe it. The 
feeling that my wife had gone, that I had buried her, 
that every vestige of oui* happy life had vanished, — 
fed my morbid fancies with the food of unbelief. I 
came to the conclusion that man was a puppet set to 
work by the chances of a fatality that was final, au- 
tomatic, and fatal to any desire of a hereafter. I said 
to myself, that I would love no one, not even my own 
child, who so needed my love and care ; and, as I 
held down my natural affection, coldness and indiffer- 
ence came in time to take its place. 

“ A.11 this I confess, my dear child, to you because 
I now see how I have wronged both you and myself. 
Of other matters, I will not speak yet-a-while : that 
part of my experience I leave to your Cousin Philip. 
I merely repeat, as I have to him, that pity was the 
only recognized feeling I had for Miss Martha Voles, 
whose position in my family was pictured to me as 
the result of a series of misfortunes, a change from 
the competence of a lady to the service of a domes- 
tic. 

However, that is all over. By a letter which I 
received this morning from Philip, I am at once freed 
from the self-immolation to which I had, without suf- 
ficient exercise of judgment, pledged myself. 

‘‘ Nobody knows what I have suffered since the daj^ 
that you were suddenly seized with illness, but God. 
Your avowal, though doubtless the result of coming 
delirium, that your mother stood at my side, opened 
at once all the closed avenues of my heart. In that 

17 


258 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


supreme moment, it seemed to me eternity was re- 
vealed and your mother still lived. The shock was 
what I needed. I thrilled like a limb just coming out 
of a palsied sleep, and then ensued a fierce contest 
with myself. During all my voyage, this contest 
never ceased. Heaven sent one of its angels to my 
help — a poor, humble woman, going cut to see her 
son, who had suddenly come into some good fortune. 
This poor yet great disciple helped me in my strug- 
gle to override my doubts ; and I am coming home 
to be a new man and a better father to my child.” 

I could read no more. I had to put the letter 
down, and just go and sob a prayer of thankfulness 
to God, who had given me back my father. 

It must have been an hour before I could compose 
myself suflficiently to return to the parlor, where, to 
my astonishment, I found Bessy on . the sofa, sur- 
rounded by everybody in the room, and learned that 
Aunt Genevieve had made her first appearance in 
the character of a heroine. 

It seemed that Bessy, in the midst of a homily upon 
ancestors, whose portraits she was exhibiting with 
one of her humorous little lectures, accidentally let 
the candle fall, which caught the lace of her sleeves 
on fire, and her dress, being thin, was suddenly in a 
flame. No one but Aunt Jenny had the forethought 
to smother it with the table-cloth. 

“ I say. Cousin Ada Stewart,” said Bessy, with a 
queer little quiver in her voice, ‘‘ I’m like the busy 
bee ; I’ve been improving the ‘ shining hour.’ What 
with being thrown from Dixie, — the old sorrel, — fall- 


MT FATHERS S LETTER. 


259 


ing down-stairs, and getting burned to death, I won- 
der if I ever ^liall get home alive ! I’ve only got to 
be drowned ; and, if I survive that, I think there’s a 
tolerable chance of my being an old woman before I 
die. As for Aunt Genevieve Normandy, just put a 
few brass hoops round her, some bouquets, and a 
rope, and she’s a w’hole of fire-engines. The 

way she smothered me for a minute ! I haven’t quite 
recovered my breath yet, though I think I could talk 
if I hadn’t any breath.” 

It was a merry evening after that, though poor 
Bessy sat with her hands bound up and Blossom’s 
head on her knee. Blossom had shared in all our 
frolics as well as our feasts. With everybody he was 
a prime favorite, and he evidently felt that he was 
among friends, and was on his best behavior. 

On the following da}". Cousin Phil took me to ride 
in the small cutter. Everybody quizzed me and Aunt 
Genevieve, who bore it with the sweetest submission* 
The ride was arranged in order that I might hear the 
good news. 

“ I might have written you a week ago,” said Cousin 
Philip, as we got well along the road ; “ but I pre- 
ferred to wait, and waiting brought you that letter, 
with one for me. I have no doubt it was all right.” 

‘‘ Oh, such a letter. Cousin Philip !” I said. 

‘‘Good! I thought as much. Well, let me see, 
where am I to begin ? In the first place, we had to 
watch Mr. Clewes, who, since your father left, has 
had ample opportunities to enrich himself, if he so 
chose. We found that his haunts were disreputable, 


26 o 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY. 


and his associates outlaws. It seems that he is in 
some way connected with a gang of counterfeiters ; 
and he probably had in view the use of the premises, 
which would insure secrecy and divert suspicion on 
account of the seclusion of Hollyhoxy. In the sec- 
ond place, that poor man of whom I wrote you is 
dead. Doctor Henry, being aided and abetted by 
the matron of the institution, obtained admission, in 
spite of the protestations of the nurse, and received 
his dying deposition. That man had been the hus- 
band of Mrs. Davis, — that man was the father of Mar- 
tha Voles and Mr. Clewes, your father’s new agent, 
— that man had passed fifteen years in the peniten- 
tiary at Albany, on the double charge of manslaugh- 
ter and counterfeiting. 

‘‘ And are Mr. Clewes and Martha brother and sis- 
ter ?” I asked, sick to the heart. 

‘‘ Yes ; and it seems the whole family is worthless 
and criminal. They were all concerned in the busi- 
ness of counterfeiting, even Martha, who was, at the 
time of her father’s commitment, fifteen years old ; 
and, perhaps, in that way she procured those dresses 
that are at once so showy and costly.” 

‘‘ But does Mrs. Davis know ?” I asked. 

‘‘ Mrs. Davis knows, and Mrs. Davis is completely 
checkmated. I had an interview with both Martha 
and herself; and, after a few weak denials and at- 
tempts to browbeat both Doctor Henry and myself, 
she threw off all disguise. I took the liberty of clear- 
ing the premises, and putting on guard a sufficient 
force to keep the house in order until you shall be 
able to return.” 


MT FATHERS S LETTER. 


261 


“ O Cousin Philip, I’ll go right away,” I said ; “ I 
shall be glad to go.” 

‘‘Not so fast, little lady,” said Cousin Philip; 
“there is no need of any hurry. Your father will 
be home in the course of next month, and I would 
advise you to remain here until his return.” 

“ Does Doctor Henry think that is best ?” I asked. 

“ I really don’t know just what Doctor Henry 
thinks,” was his repljs a furtive smile accompanying 
the w^ords. The smile made me wish I had held my 
tongue. 

“ Because you know, Cousin Philip, that I am a 
stranger here, and doing only transient work. There 
I could find real, legitimate work to do, and feel at 
home in doing it. Oh, home will seem so sweet to 
me now ! — and father, he will, he must be changed !” 

“ Undoubtedly. I shall look to see the family pew 
once more a living fact and not a dead reminder. 
Suppose you invite your cousins there.” 

I clasped my hands at this brilliant idea, which only 
needed to be broached to complete my happiness. 

“ And Aunt Genevieve ?” 

“ Most assuredly, if she could leave her mother,” 
said he, a faint glow on his cheek. 

“ Grandy is really getting to be angelic,” I said : 
“ there is no knowing how much self-sacrifice she is 
capable of. I’ll ask her myself.” 

That week will ever be memorable to me. It Avas 
a season of unrestrained, innocent fun, of unexampled 
merriment. We had sleighrides, tableaus, concerts, 
parties ; and one night we went up into grandy’s 


262 


GRANDMOTHER NORMANDY, 


room. The yet handsome old lady received ns in 
splendid style, dressed in stately brocade and lace 
hundreds of years old. 

‘‘ I don’t know as dear old grandy would mind be- 
ing short of money,” said Bessy, in an aside to me ; 
‘‘ but I think being short of ancestors would about 
kill her.” 

The next day, I stole up-stairs while the girls and 
all the rest were busy, chosing a moment when Aunt 
Genevieve had gone into the housekeeper’s roo-m. 
Grandy’s door was slightly ajar, and the room looked 
brighter than usual. She herself lay high among the 
pillows, and her face seemed bathed in the soft light 
that entered the w'est window. She looked so gentle 
and subdued that the sight overcame me for a mo- 
ment ; and I burst into tears, and threw my arms 
about her, moved by I know not what invisible 
power. 

My deary, my deary !” exclaimed the invalid^ ‘‘is 
it for grandy’s sorrow you cry, or grandy’s sin?” 

“ Neither, grandmother: it’s just come over me that 
I loved you more than I ever thought I should, and 
I want you to forgive me.” 

“ Forgive you ? for what, my child ?” 

“ That I have not cherished right feelings,. — that I 
have felt you were unjust to my mother — ” 

“ And so I was, child, so I was,” said grandy; “ but 
it was all unlawful, unchristian pride ; and^ alas, the 
old prejudice dies so hard ! Ah, child ! there’s no 
torture to a mother’s heart so keen as the disobedi- 
ence of a cherished son or daughter. But I have 


MT FATHERS LETTER. 


263 


been thinking, and I see that I expected too much of 
my children. Your mother loved an honest man, 
whom I hated because he had only a competence and 
his ancestors were worldng-people. I overlooked his 
nobility of character no doubt. Your mother saw, 
and loved it. Well, let by-gones be by-gones. I am 
nearer the unseen world now ; I have parted with 
prejudices ; I have, I humbly hope, made my peace 
with m}^ Maker.” 

Grandy, I wish Aunt Genevieve could go home 
with me for a little holiday,” I said at last, almost 
frightened at my own presumption. Mrs. Clute 
tells me there will be plenty of company in a few 
weeks, and you would not be so lonely.” 

“ Mrs. Clute”— and grandy begun with her old 
sternness, but ended the sentence with a smile — “ is 
a woman of remarkable knowledge and great re- 
sources. 

‘‘Yes, Genevieve must go. I shall miss her, and 
she will miss me ; but I will not bar the way to her 
enjoyment of a rare social pleasure, for rare enough 
it will be for her, poor child ! But ” — and she held 
up her thin but shapely forefinger — “she must be 
married under this roof. That’s a special edict ; 
there I must have my way.” 

Dear grandy, how could I ever have thought her 
cold and cruel ! 

The girls accepted my invitation with marked de- 
light, and there was plenty of stir and bustle even 
after Bessy’s brothers were gone. 

Mrs. Clnte took Aunt Jenny’s place oftener of late, 
and dressmakers were at work in the back parlor. 


264 GRANDMOTHER NORMANDT. 

Cousin Philip came after us. I was prepared to 
see some few changes, perhaps, in my father most of 
all. I knew that pretty little Polly had gone home, 
and that Cousin Philip was building in the vicinity 
of Hollyhoxy, on some land that my father had sold 
him. 

Ah ! there was that dark, bright face, the face my 
father used to wear in my dear mother’s lifetime. No 
need to tell me I had found my old place : my father 
loved me ! He held me in his arms as he had done 
when I was a little child. In the midst of the merry 
talk and pleasant confusion, I turned at the sound of 
a familiar voice, with a quick-beating heart, and found 
both my hands imprisoned by Doctor Henry. 

And so now — as he has done for many, many past, 
happy years — he holds both hands and heart ; and, 
with him for my guide and helper, I try to do my 
Mastek’s work for time* and for Eteenity, and to 
lead, with all earnestness, the Life Beautiful.” 


THE END. 


New Publications. 


What tiih Seven Did. By Margaret Sidney. Boston : 
D. Lotlirop & Co. Price $175. One of the most attractive 
volumes of the present year, or, indeed, of any of the years 
preceding, is this delightful record of the sayings and doings 
of the Wordsworth Club at its various regular and irregular 
meetings. The club is a girls’ club and the mystic number 
seven constitutes its active strength. The members are 
greatly given to fun and frolic, and their meetings, although 
generally spiced with easy-to-break-out tempers of some of 
the lively crowd, are generally occasions of special enjoy- 
ment. There is a mystery in the story — a succession of 
mysteries, rather — and they all have to do with a certain 
Miss Rachel Wigthorpe and a Little Brown Box. Just what 
they are we are not permitted to tell, but they have the 
effect of bringing the members of the Club together at very 
special weekly meetings in Miss Wigthorpe’s parlor for 
seven consecutive weeks, and not only that, but all the boys 
and girls of the neighborhood who have, or who can beg or 
borrow ten cents, are eager to share in the enjoyment of 
these mysterious evenings. Even the babies and the cats 
sometimes have to be let in, and occasionally a prominent 
part is taken in the proceedings by a mature and irrepressi- 
ble young gentleman of three, who insists on wearing his 
hat and has a proclivity, in certain contingencies, for the 
active use of teeth and nails. It is a delightful book from 
beginning to end, and will furnish no end of entertainment 
for juvenile readers. It is profusely illustrated, witli an 
artistic cover designed by J. Wells Champney. 

Tennyson’s Pastoral Songs. Boston: D. Lothrop & 
Co. Price $2.50. Among the holiday publications now in 
course of preparation by the Messrs. Lothrop, this exquisite 
volume merits particular attention. It is made up of choice 
selections from the works of the poet-laureate, beautifully 
illustrated, printed on the finest paper, and elegantly bound. 
Among the selections are some of the songs from ‘‘Maud” 
and “The Princess,” “The Bugle Song,” “The Brook,” 
“ The Miller’s Daughter,” etc. Nothing more choice of its 
kind will be offered holiday buyers the coming season. 


New publications. 


Egypt* occupied the geographical centre of the ancient 
world. It was fertile and attractive. Its inhabitants were 
polished, cultivated, and warlike. Its great cities were cen- 
tres of w^ealth and civilization, and from the most distant 
countries came scholars and travellers to learn wisdom under 
Egyptian masters and study the arts, sciences and govern- 
mental policy of the country. While surrounding nations 
were sunk in primitive barbarism Egypt shone as the patron 
of arts and acquirements. With a natural thirst for com 
quest she introduced a system of military tactics which 
made her armies almost invincible. Her wisdom was a 
proverb among the surrounding nations. “If a philoso- 
pher,” says Wilkinson, “ sought knowledge, Egypt was the 
school; if a prince required a physician it was to Egypt that 
he applied : if any material point perplexed the decision of 
Kings or councils, to Egypt it was referred, and the arms of 
a Pharaoh were the hope and frequently the protection, even 
at a late period, of a less powerful ally. It would surprise 
many readers to know how much in customs, social and 
religious, has come down to us from this ancient people. 
Placing the ring on the bride’s finger at marriage is an in- 
stance. The Egyptian gold pieces were in the form of rings, 
and the husband placed one on the finger of his wife as an 
eniblem of the fact that he entrusted her henceforth with 
all his projierty. The celebration of Twelfth Day and Cand- 
lemas are Egyptian festivals under different names. The 
Catholic priest shaves his head because the Egyptian priests 
did the same ages before; the English clergyman reads the 
liturgy in a linen dress because linen was the dress of the 
Egyptians, and more than two thousand years before the 
bishop of the Church of Rome pretended to hold the keys 
of heaven and hell there was a priest in Egypt whose title 
was the Appointed Keeper of the Two Doors of Heaven. 

It is not strange that the story of this people and country 
should be so fascinating. There is an element of the mys- 
terious in it which attracts even the reader who does not 
care for historical reading in general. In the preparation 
of her work Mrs. Clement has not only had the advantage 
of extensive reading upon the subject, but of personal travel 
and knowledge. She has skilfully condensed the vast 
amount of material at her command, and presents to the 
reading public a volume which needs only to be examined 
to become a standard. 


* Egypt. By Mrs. Clara Erskine Clement. Lothrop’s Library of Enter 
ainin^ History. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price ^1.50. 


NEW Publications, 


Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. By 
Margaret Sidney. 111. Boston : D. Lothrop & Co. Price 
$1.50. Of all the books for juvenile readers which crowd 
the counters of the dealers this season, not one possesses so 
many of those peculiar qualities which go to make up a per- 
fect story as this charming work. It tells the story of a 
happy family, the members of which, from the mother to the 
youngest child, are bound together in a common bond of 
love. Although poor, and obliged to plan and scrimp and 
pinch to live from day to day, they make the little brown 
house which holds them a genuine paradise. To be sure 
the younger ones grumble occasionally at having nothing 
but potatoes and bread six days in the week, but that can 
hardly be regarded as a defect either of character or disposi- 
tion. Some of the home-scenes in which these little Pep- 
pers are the actors are capitally described, and make the 
reader long to take part in them. The description of the 
baking of the birthday cake by the children during the 
absence of the mother ; the celebration of the first Christ- 
mas, and the experiences of the family with the measles are 
portions of the book which will be thoroughly enjoyed. A 
good deal of ingenuity is displayed by the author in bring- 
ing the little Peppers out of their poverty and giving them a 
start in life. The whole change is made to turn on the 
freak of the youngest of the cluster, the three-year old 
Phronsie, who insisted on sending a gingerbread boy to a 
rich old man who was spending the summer at the village 
hotel. The old gentleman after laughing himself sick at the 
ridiculous character of the present, called to see her, and is 
so taken with the whole family that he insists upon carrying 
the eldest girl home with him to be educated. How ehe 
went, and what she did, and how the rest of the family 
finally followed ner, with the rather unlooked-for discovery of 
relationship at the close, make up the substance of a dozen 
or more interesting chapters. It ought, for the lesson it 
teaches, to be put into the hands of every boy and girl hi 
the country. It is very fully and finely illustrated aiid 
bound in elegant form, and it will find prominent place 
among the higher class of iuvenile presentation books 
coming holiday season. 


NEW PUBLICATIONS. 


A Family Flight over Egypt and Syria. By E. E. 
Hale and Susan Hale. 111. Boston : D. Lothrop <fe Co. 
Price $2.50. Of all the books issued during the holiday 
season a year ago, not one had so immediate and widespread 
a popularity as the first volume of this series, A Family 
Flight through France^ Germany^ Norway and Switzer- 
land. Although a very large edition was issued by the 
publishers early in December it was wholly exhausted before 
Christmas, while the call was at its height, and there has 
been a steady demand for it ever since in the regular chan- 
nels of the trade. Attractive as it was, the present volume 
is of still greater interest and is even more profusely illus- 
trated. It is especially timely too, as everybody is anxious, 
in view of the present complications in the East, to know 
something more about Egypt than can be gained from the 
daily papers. 

The family — four in number this time — make their 
flight from New York, landing at Bordeaux, and pushing on 
without stop to Marseilles, which they reached just in time 
to catch the steamer for Alexandria. They stop at Malta 
on the way, but only for a few hours, which, however, are 
well improved. At Alexandria they remain for two days, 
and then hurry on to Cairo, where friends are awaiting 
them. Here the Nile journey begins, and an entertaining 
record of each day’s experiences is given. The party sees 
all that possibly can be seen, both going up and coming 
down the river. After their return to Cairo and a few 
days’ rest they start for Suez, where they traverse the one 
hundred miles of the famous canal to Port Said, on the 
Mediterranean. From there they take the steamer to Jaffa, 
the ancient Joppa, and the most ancient town in the world. 
From there they push on to Jerusalem, and after an exhaus- 
tive exploration of the sacred city extend their travels to 
other historical localities of the Holy Land. The interest 
of the narrative never palls. The style is breezy, free and 
unconventional, and nothing is told but is worth the telling. 
The volume is beautifully bound, and, as we have already 
stated, is abundantly illustrated. A new edition of the first 
volume will be issued simultaneously with Egypt and Syria 
in ample time for the holiday trade. 


NEW PUBLrCATIONS. 


After the Freshet. By Edward A. Band. Boston: 
D. Lotlirop & Co. Price $1.25. This is the second volume 
in the V 1 F seiies which was stamped with success by the 
first issue. It is unnecessary to say of any books of Mr. 
Band’s that they are bright, interesting and lieipful; that 
may be taken for granted. His stories have always 
been characterized by those qualities and in the one 
Defore us they are particularly prominent. There is 
always a purpose in his books, an influence which remains 
after the mere incidents of the story are forgotten. He has 
painted a variety of characters, good and bad, in After 
the Freshet^ all of which have a special mission to per- 
form. The main character of the story is Arthur Manley, a 
young man of fine talents and noble character, who has been 
brought up in a rough farmer’s family in ignorance of his 
parentage. From the fact that he has become a great favor- 
ite with a wealthy family in town, he has incurred the 
dislike of an unprincipled lawyer, who has designs upon 
that family, and who resorts to a series of persecutions in 
order to get him out of the way. The story of how he 
evades the plots of his enemy and how he ultimately dis- 
covers the secret of his birth and achieves the other and 
higher ambitions of his life, is vividly and afiectingly told. 

Todays and Yesterdays. By Carrie Adelaide Cooke. 
Boston : D. Lothrop & Co. Price $1.25. This pleasant 
story is from the pen of the author of From June to June, 
and is intended for the reading of girls who have reached 
that age when their real mission in life seems to commence; 
tlie age when school-days are ended, and the sphere of duty 
is enlarged by wider acquaintance and new responsibilities. 
The story opens at a New Hampshire seminary on the eve 
of examination day, and the principal characters are three 
girls, school-companions and fellow-graduates. It is not a 
story of incident, nor does its interest depend upon strong 
contrasts or vivid descriptions. The narrative is ^ a quiet 
following out of the currents of these three lives, with^ their 
various changes, their joys and sorrows. A strong religious 
element permeates the book, and it will be found a valuabi* 
addition to Sunday-school literaturs. 


NEW Publications. 


The Fettibone Name. By Margaret Sidney. The Y I F 
Series. Boston: D. Lothiop & Co. Price $1.25 If the 
publishers had offered a prize for the brightest, freshest and 
most brilliant bit of home fiction wherewith to start off this 
new series, they could not have more perfectly succeeded 
than they have in securing this. The Pettibone Name, a story 
that ought to create an immediate and wide sensation, and 
give the author a still higher place than she now occupies in 
popular esteem. The heroine of the story is not a young, 
romantic girl, but a noble, warm-hearted woman, who sacri- 
^ces wealth, ease and comfort for the sake of others who are 
dear to her. There has been no recent figure in American 
fiction more clearly or skillfully drawn than Judith Petti- 
bone, and the impression made upon the reader will not be 
easily effaced. Most of the characters of the book are such 
as may be met with in any New England village. Deacon 
Badger, whose upright life and pleasant ways make him a 
universal favorite; little Doctor Pilcher, with his hot temper 
and quick tongue; Samantha Scarritt, the village dress- 
maker, whose sharp speech and love of gossip are tempered 
by a kind heart and quick sympathy, and the irrepressible 
Bobby Jane, all are from life, and all alike hear testimony 
to the author’s keenness of observation and skill of delinea- 
tion. Taken altogether, it is a delightful story of New En- 
gland life and manners ; sparkling in style, bright in incident, 
and intense in interest. It deserves to be widely read, as it 
will be. 

Life and Public Career of Horace Greeley. By 
W. M. Cornell, LL. D. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price 
$1.25. This is a new edition of a popular life of Greeley, the 
first edition of which was early exhausted. It has been the 
author’s aim to give a clear and correct pen picture of the 
great editor, and to trace the gradual steps in his career from a 
poor and hard-working farmer boy to the editorial chair of the 
most powerful daily newspaper in America. The book has 
been thoroughly revised and considerable new matter added. 


NEV/ PUBLICATIONS, 


Polly’s Scheme. By Corydon. Boston: D. Lothrop 
& Co. Price $1.00. Here is a book that ought to create a 
sensation; bright, breezy and jolly; full of life from cover 
to cover, and worthy a place in any of the countless carpet- 
bags which will be packed by vacationists this summer. 
“Polly’s Scheme” is one that has occurred to hundreds of 
weary city-dwellers when casting about to find ways and 
means to spend the summer months comfortably and profit- 
ably. It was for herself and husband to rent a nice littie 
furnished house in the country for the summer, persuade 
their friends to live with them on the cooperative plan, 
save money, and be happy. Polly and her husband were 
young and inexperienced, and imagined that they had made 
an original discovery. They were successful in securing 
just such a place as they dreamed of, and took possession, 
with. the promise of boarders as soon as the season should 
open. The book is a history of the occurrences and happen- 
ings of that summer, and a most entertaining history it is. 
From the sudden advent and equally sudden departure of 
Mrs. Vivian Sylvester — who insisted on having a fiie 
lighted every morning to take the chill off the air for the 
sake of her poodle — down to the close of the season when 
the curtain fails on the story and its characters, it is full of 
surprises and humorous incidents. The character drawing 
is clearly and skillfully done, and the whole book hasn’t a 
dull sentence in it. It is just long enough to be read in a 
single afternoon, and the laziest man in the world could not 
possibly go to sleep over it. Mark it down for a sure place 
in the vacation bundle of books, even if it has to be read be- 
fore that time. It will bear a second perusal. 

Some Young Heroines. Illustrated. By Pans^. 
Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price $1.00. Another book % 
Pansy, made up of charming stories expressly adapted to 
the reading of girls, and filled with beautiful pictures. 
It would be difficult to describe the manifold attractions that 
are held between the covers of this book, but they can be 
easily got at by little readers when once the volume is in 
their hands. 








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